


Embracing the Season

by Mejhiren



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: (But Sweet and Tender Just the Same), (Couldn't Resist!), Afternoon delight, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sex Stuff, F/M, Humor, Marriage, Married Sex, Mentions of Pregnancy and Breastfeeding, Minor Triggers for Pregnancy Issues (Mrs. Mellark), Mother-in-Law!Raisa, Parent!Everlark, Sex after Children, Tenderness, lovemaking, married!everlark, mentions of divorce, parent and child relationships, parenting, teenage!toastbabies, toastbabies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mejhiren/pseuds/Mejhiren
Summary: [We] feasted on love, every mode of it—solemn and merry, romantic and realistic, sometimes as dramatic as a thunderstorm, sometimes as comfortable and unemphatic as putting on your soft slippers. - C.S. LewisKatniss and Peeta indulge in an afternoon interlude - alternately sensual and playful but always tender - before their college freshman daughter comes home for the weekend. Modern AU oneshot, submitted toLove in Panemfor their2017 Valentine's Day Challenge: "Love Is..."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DandelionLass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandelionLass/gifts).



> Easter eggs (i.e., nods to my other fics) and spoilers (for my other fics) abound in this story! So if it’s a new detail, kindly forget that you saw it here so you can be duly surprised when it appears elsewhere at a later date. ;) While this fic does not directly connect to any other of mine, if you squint it could _almost_ be a sequel to Head Over Feet.

_[We] feasted on love, every mode of it—solemn and merry, romantic and realistic,_  
_sometimes as dramatic as a thunderstorm, sometimes as comfortable and unemphatic  
__as putting on your soft slippers. - C.S. Lewis_

I’m reaching for a gallon of milk when I spot the narrow cartons of eggnog slotted neatly alongside, making their very first appearance of the season on October 24, and squeal like a child. The straight stuff has always been a little too rich for my blood and I inevitably cut it with a splash of milk to save money and make it stretch, but my nutmeg-crazed husband could drink eggnog by the gallon, straight from the carton, and loves to use it in everything he can think of: chai lattes, bread pudding, oatmeal, French toast, pancakes – and proper cakes… He breads and batters it (rather than “ordinary,” always available buttermilk) into fried chicken, chicken-fried steaks, and the most insanely decadent fried cheese nuggets and stirs it into freshly fallen snow for homemade eggnog “ice cream.”

I seize a festive carton of the full-fat variety and place it in my cart.

But then, with Ashpet coming home for the weekend, we’re practically guaranteed an eggnog breakfast buffet tomorrow.

I grab a second quart and add “Bacon” to my notebook. The way this weekend is shaping up, they’ll have to take the pickup to the butcher’s, laughing all the way.

While I’m waiting at the checkout, my gaze drifts over impulse winter items hanging alongside the magazines, clearly put out to correspond with the forecast: ice scrapers, lock de-icers, and cheap knitted stocking caps, one of which is a sort of Crayola brown that I can’t resist picking up. Peeta had a brown stocking cap just like this when we were in high school, a cheap one that he finally wore to pieces and hung out in the lilacs for nesting material, but I adored him in it. I used to tug it down over his eyes and kiss his unsuspecting mouth like an affectionate sneak-thief, or sometimes I pulled it all the way over his face and nipped at his eyes and nose through the material.

$4.99 is a ridiculous price but I add the hat to the cart anyway.

Love is like that sometimes. Ordinary little presents that make you foolishly happy.

The bakery is already bustling with early lunch traffic when I arrive, but that’s the mid-shift’s responsibility. Peeta’s been in since three this morning and it’s time and past to take him home to bed.

He’s still in his flour-crusted apron behind the counter, sliding a fresh basket of sweet rolls into the case, and I duck down to hold the carton of eggnog in front of the glass, by way of greeting. He pops up like a Jack-in-the-box at the sight, his face creased in the biggest, goofiest grin imaginable.

The first eggnog of the holiday season is comparable to the first robin of spring, maybe even _more_ exciting.

“You’d better get a second one,” he warns happily. “Eggnog breakfast buffet tomorrow.”

I hold up the second carton in my other hand and he smiles so hard his bright eyes squeeze to slits.

“Two kisses for you!” he proclaims, shucking his apron. “Just give me two shakes,” and he ducks through the swinging doors to toss it in the laundry bin.

“Better make it three,” I call after him, following him back into the prep room, which is momentarily free of other occupants. “The five-year Gouda was on sale so I got a whole wedge, not just a baby cube from the remnant basket.”

He gives a delighted moan and whirls back to take me in his arms. “You realize we're eating that before the kids get home,” he informs me. He smells of sweat, cinnamon rolls, and asiago-rosemary focaccia, with just a whiff of diesel from unloading the flour shipment this morning, and I love him so much that I ache.

I set the eggnogs on either side of the prep table behind me and produce the cheese from my coat pocket, half-unwrapped in anticipation, along with my pocketknife, and he laughs, dispensing three sound kisses upon my grinning mouth.

“Oh heaven,” he sighs. “I have the best wife in the whole world.”

“Who's that, then?” I tease, and he kisses me again.

“Any lunch requests?” he wonders against my mouth. “I bagged half a dozen sweet rolls and saved back a quart of soup – figured we’d go light before supper.”

“We can go even lighter than that, if you want,” I tell him huskily, tucking away the knife and cheese once more. “The only thing I’m hungry for right now is you.”

He grunts softly and rubs his groin against my belly. “I think that can be arranged,” he murmurs. “But I’m bringing soup and bread just the same – for stamina.”

I laugh and nip at his lower lip. “I’ll make us a grazing tray,” I offer. “With both kids home all weekend, we have to make the most of this afternoon.”

“Any word from Little Peep?” he asks.

Ashpet is almost nineteen and will be “Little Peep” for the rest of our days. It’s the name of Peeta’s favorite childhood read – a delightful picture-book about a barnyard chick who tries his hand, or wing, at making the sun rise – which he naturally introduced and read non-stop to his own wide-eyed chick, who fell in love with the book in her turn. And even before that, she was inexplicably, adorably inclined to utter peeps and chirps more often than the typical baby sounds.

Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that her father is absolutely besotted with birds. Peeta bought her every imaginable toy that made a cheep or chirp of any kind, including all the songbirds in the Audubon plush collection, and he always slept – _still_ sleeps – with the windows open, even when newborn Ashpet was nestled between us in bed, so she was alternately roused and lulled to sleep by the most exquisite early morning birdsong.

Peeta loves both of our kids – it’s unthinkable even to suggest otherwise – but he utterly worships Ashpet. Maybe because she was the first Mellark girl in three generations or maybe because she's _our_ daughter – a tiny, magical creature, sown by him and born from me – or maybe because she looks so much like both of us, with Peeta’s round open face, bright eyes, and curls, only they’re inky black, like my own pin-straight hair, and she’s small and slight like me, not stocky and solid-boned like a classic Mellark. Whatever the reason, from the moment Ashpet slipped out of my body, vernix-crusted and all, she’s been the apple of her father’s eye, which alternately annoys and delights her brother to no end.

When Janni was born, Peeta somehow found the wherewithal to lay him on my belly and proclaim, “Okay, this one’s yours.”

Endless tears and kisses preceded and followed that remark, of course, but there’s a surprising amount of truth in things said in the heat of the moment, however offhandedly. Peeta’s never, _ever_ stinted Janni in any fashion – affection, praise, gifts, or time – but he loves Ashpet so much it’s ridiculous.

“She sent me a picture of the packed car before she went into her exam,” I tell him. “You'd think she was coming home for Christmas, not just a weekend – oh, and she asked what's on at the multiplex for Papa and Peep's Pizza Party.”

“Agatha Raisin,” he reveals in a conspiratorial hush. “I signed up for a trial subscription of Acorn TV so we could watch the rest of the season, but don’t breathe a word of it to her.”

“So it’s good that I grabbed some 30-month Cheddar and the Double Gloucester with chives?” I wonder innocently, because he’s not the only one capable of catering to our daughter’s Anglophilia.

“You’re amazing,” he declares, and pecks my face all over with giddy kisses. “Would it be too weird to put bangers and chips on a pizza – just a little one, in case it’s gross?”

“It _won’t_ be gross,” I assure him merrily. “But if you decide the result is sub-par, you can always cover it up with Bisto or a lot of HP.”

Papa and Peep’s Pizza Party is a long-standing Friday night tradition and one to which Janni and I can generally expect an invite. Peeta and I both grew up hungry in different ways, and we decided as soon as Ashpet started eyeing something other than my breasts at mealtime that our kids would have whatever they wanted to eat, so long as it was of good quality: ergo, gourmet homemade pizza rather than the cheap frozen fare my poor upbringing still thinks is the best we can afford, or the carry-out stuff beloved by so many parents of our generation.

Thankfully, I'm married to a third-generation baker so we have a reasonably fantastic oven, to say nothing of a pantry that could double as a small grocery store, and Peeta's aunt runs a world-class butcher shop and delicatessen. Knowing Ashpet is coming home, Rooba will have made about five kinds of her famous pork sausage in anticipation of Papa and Peep’s Pizza Party, with all kinds of special seasonings and “mix-ins,” as she jokingly calls them, like crushed pineapple, jalapeño peppers, and sweet Vidalia onions.

Rooba’s got half a dozen kids of her own and adores them all, but even she recognizes Ashpet as something special.

Unless I miss my guess, Ashpet’s going to meet Peeta at Rooba’s before even stopping at home and they’ll spend a good half-hour choosing the best meats for their pizza lineup – or probably longer, since this is the first Ashpet’s been home since beginning her first semester of college and everything will inevitably be comforting and new all at once.

Seeing my beautiful daughter as a college student for the first time will be comforting and new all at once.

Peeta cuts fresh basil, parsley, and rosemary from our kitchen plants and makes a pull-apart crust of mini cheese buns that puts every stuffed crust I’ve ever seen to shame. He even makes his own sauces – plural – with crushed tomatoes, sweet peppers, roasted garlic and positive quarts of butter, white wine, and heavy cream.

The only part of pizza night prep that I’m allowed a direct hand in is choosing the cheese, as it’s practically a love language for Peeta and me. Our “date nights” typically consist of sparkling apple cider and a plate of assorted tiny cheeses from the grocery remnant basket, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the champagne and caviar in the world.

I always grab an assortment of our favorites, especially the “non-traditional” ones, because Peeta can turn fierce English Cheddar and rich heavy Gruyère and sweet-crystallized aged Gouda into pizzas so incredible they’ll bring tears to your eyes with every bite. But I nab plenty of the usual stuff too: balls of fresh mozzarella – even fresher now that our grocery store added a proper “cheesemonger” and pulls their own – and blocks of Parmesan at a price that makes my poverty-conditioned brain twinge, but Peeta built cheese into our budget straight after our honeymoon and reassures me almost daily that it’s okay to spend good money on delicious food, especially if it makes me happy.

“I got you a present, by the way,” I reveal, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Sexy lingerie for our afternoon interlude?” he teases, and I produce the stocking cap from my other pocket and tug it down to cover his curls.

“Well, if you _want_ to wear it in bed…” I begin, and he hugs me so hard that I squeak.

“I love you too,” he sighs. “It’s _perfect_ , Katniss. I’ll wear it in bed, at work, in the shower –”

“Just outdoors will do nicely,” I demur, but my hands can’t seem to leave his broad, sweaty back alone. I love every inch of this strong, stocky man and can’t wait another minute to have him all to myself.

“Pick you up out front?” I wonder, and he shakes his head against my shoulder. “I’ll follow you out – just need to grab my coat.”

Home is about a five-minute drive from the bakery, and we manage it quite complacently, even stopping for gas on the way, just in case the promised snowstorm hits overnight.

Love is like that sometimes, especially after twenty years of marriage. You can want each other so badly you think you’re going to combust and then have a polite conversation with a salesperson or run an errand or two like it’s no bother whatsoever.

“I’ll put the groceries away,” I tell him once we’ve carried everything in, but he shakes his head. “I’ll help,” he insists cheerfully. “It’s no fun being in the bedroom alone.”

I know a fair number of people might argue with that, but it’s simply not how Peeta and I work. I suspect that, deep down, we’re still eleven-year-olds who find the idea of touching your own genitals thoroughly _icky_ – while, of course, having no problem whatsoever letting each other touch them in all kinds of tender and delicious ways.

We manage to put away all the cold items before Peeta catches my waist and begins nuzzling meaningfully at my neck, and I chuckle. “The perishables are secure,” I concede. “Come on, old man.”

We hold hands like grade schoolers and make our way to the bedroom, where we split to our respective corners and proceed to undress like it’s bedtime on any given night.

Sex is like that sometimes. It isn’t always tearing at each other’s clothes and leaving heaps of it strewn across the room, hanging precariously over doorknobs or lampshades or bedposts. There’s nothing wrong with undressing yourself or laying your clothes neatly across a chair, especially if you know you’ll be back in them sooner rather than later.

But of course, there’s no rule that you can’t watch your spouse undress either, and I’m so enthralled by the sight of Peeta’s broad naked back that I stop undressing halfway through and don’t realize he’s progressed to his jeans till he wriggles them past his hips and they pool on the floor.

"Well, hello there," I giggle.

He’s not fully erect, but the tender pink tip of his penis has nosed its way through the opening of his shorts and appears to be peeking out hopefully. After twenty years, it still makes me giggle and still makes him blush, every single time.

"He heard there were treats, I guess," he says with endearing bashfulness for a 38-year-old man with two nearly-grown children. "And he wondered if there might be one for him too."

I cross over to him to bend and peck the hopeful head with a kiss. "Quite possibly," I tell it cheekily.

I tuck him back inside then tug his shorts to his knees and plant his bare backside on the edge of the bed. This is an easy position for him but I know we won't stay like this: Peeta likes everything to happen deep in our bed, fully naked, with as much skin contact as is humanly possible – as do I.

Not to mention, his jeans are still tangled around his ankles.

“Hello again,” I address his groin, smiling through my own fierce blush – it never gets old to see my husband swell and pulse with longing for _me_ – and crouch down between his legs.

“That’s…no good, Katniss…” he rasps, even as his penis gives a delighted surge toward my face.

“Oh, I know,” I agree, because I don’t care for this position any more than he does. “I just wanted to reassure him,” I tease, but breathily, tracing the lip of the engorged head with a fingertip.

He leans forward to peel my shirt up over my head – reconciling the difference in our states of undress – and lays it at the end of the bed, then he reaches behind to unhook my bra. “That’s better,” he croaks as it slides down my arms, freeing my breasts. They’ve grown long and limp with age and children and they were never large or spectacular to begin with, but it hasn’t dampened Peeta’s hunger for them one jot. He glances between my breasts and my underwear, trying to decide whether to pause to enjoy me a little or finish what he started, and finally hooks callused fingertips into my waistband and tugs gently, bringing me up out of my crouch as he eases my underwear down.

Mine come off easier than his, for obvious reasons, and I shimmy them down my calves with a chuckle. “Now what?” I wonder, stepping out of the garment and kicking it out of the way with one small foot, and he cups my backside with a moan, guiding me down onto his knees to lip and lap and suckle wetly at my breasts as his fingers drift over my buttocks, skimming exquisitely along the sensitive cleft.

I’ve never quite understood Peeta’s fascination with my breasts, but his mouth feels so incredible, I have no intention of doing anything to delay or, perish the thought, _prevent_ it. I asked him once if he really enjoys sucking on them like some kind of favorite treat he can never, _ever_ get enough of and he raised his head, wet-lipped, his pupils so huge I could barely see the blue that surrounds them, to ask if I really enjoy sucking on a very specific part of _him_.

I can barely explain that myself. It was something we’d heard of, of course, and just sort of happened upon during our honeymoon. Not on purpose, just tender kisses and curious licks to start, but it felt so good and _right_ – the breathtaking petal-softness of his skin; its pleasant, musky warmth; even the shape of his penis in my mouth was strangely comfortable – that I wanted even _more_ ; _so_ much more, which my overwhelmed – and swiftly thereafter, _overcome_ – new husband was in no frame of mind to refuse.

Somehow he’s managed to keep on his stocking cap, tag and all, and I pull his head closer to my chest as I lean into him. Entirely fluent in this language of our bodies, he widens his mouth to enclose the entire breast at the base and sucks a little harder, making me whimper with pleasure.

His penis pokes my belly, a bit like a child with urgent news, anxious of being forgotten by the grown-ups, and I curl forward to kiss his stocking-capped head. “I knew you’d make good on this position,” I murmur. “Do you want to keep going or do you want me to take over?”

“Both,” he groans around his deep mouthful of breast, and I’m tempted to concede. We have plenty of time, and Peeta’s capable of orgasming from precious little more than what we’re doing right now. But our interludes have been few and far between of late, and if he finishes like this he’ll spend his recharging time with that sweet wet mouth between my legs, and as much as I’m looking forward to that, I want a turn at loving him too.

I reach down to stroke him a little, not with intent, just as a reminder, and my breast slips from his mouth with a bounce as he lifts his head. “ _Both?_ ” he rasps, the exact same word as before but with an entirely different meaning that I recognize at once.

The first time we attempted _that_ – simultaneously savoring each other’s private places with our mouths – we were mortified. We’d heard of it, of course – it was like the ultimate dirty joke – and it sounded so kinky and uncomfortable that we were both afraid to even bring it up, but in the end it was the most incredibly intimate thing we’d ever experienced. Neither of the obvious positions sounded pleasant in any way so we ended up curled on our sides, resting a cheek on each other’s thigh as our mouths moved along each other’s most precious and vulnerable parts in quiet tandem.

I have no objection to doing that, today or any other time, but right now I want to focus entirely on my sweet, so desperate-to-please husband. “Later,” I promise. “Please, can I have you first?”

He swallows hard and nods, and I scoot off his lap and wriggle off his jeans and socks. His shorts are caught on the edge of his prosthesis and he frees them with a hand, but this is where I take over. “I’ll get it,” I tell him, slipping his shorts off over his feet, and press the pin at his right ankle, releasing the plastic limb and tucking it carefully beneath the bed. After that there are layers of socks encasing his stump to peel away, but I’ve done this so many times I don’t even have to think about it.

Removing a prosthesis isn’t supposed to be romantic, I suspect, but it does something deep and profound to both of us. Peeta doesn’t feel truly naked – to himself or to me – unless he takes his leg off, and of course, doing so prevents him pinching or rubbing against it during an otherwise blissful moment. His missing calf and foot have never caused any difficulties whatsoever in bed, and exposing the tender stump of his leg provides me with another precious, vulnerable place to love. I guided it between my legs once in the midst of a lazy afternoon interlude and daringly rubbed against the smooth, blunt end, just to see how it would feel to us both, and we clung to each other as my hips took on a life of their own, grinding slow and hard against the tender limb, and sobbed through the mutual climax that followed.

“Scooch up,” I tell him, scooting him toward the head of the bed and piling up pillows to brace his back so he can see without having to lean up or crane his neck. His legs loll wide and sink against the mattress, giving me a clear, generous view of – and path to – his groin, but I still slip a pillow behind his right knee for support, just in case.

He smiles shakily at the gesture and stretches out a hand to brush my cheek. “I love you so much,” he murmurs. “This is enough, you know – _more_ than enough.”

“Not today,” I correct him gently, “not by half,” and I settle on my belly between his legs.

After twenty years of marriage, still I savor this strange, ruddy, velvet-skinned organ jutting from his groin, even more than I did on our wedding night, when I saw him naked for the first time, bit by glorious bit, and each newly revealed part of him was more exquisite than the last. I’m hungry for it, for the feel of him in my mouth and the deep, desperate sounds he makes in response to the tiniest movement of my lips or tongue, and I dip my face and claim him with a sigh, sucking contentedly at the shaft.

The magazines don’t tell you about this. That is, they talk about sex – especially the oral kind – like it’s going out of style, but the focus always seems to be on finding the magic spots or techniques to jump-start or rush things along and achieve the most intense orgasm with the minimum investment of time and effort.

They don’t tell you that sex can be comfortable, like a pair of well-worn boots that you can simply slip into anytime. They don’t tell you that intimate things can feel _good_ – not explosive or earth-shattering; just simply, incredibly, _good_ – or, for that matter, _nice_. That reaching the destination is great but there’s no need to rush the journey, or pass the side-roads.

The first time Peeta touched my clitoris – I had never touched myself there, not even by accident – it was a shy, reverent curl of one callused fingertip, and the breath melted out of me in a long, lowing croon. It felt simply, incredibly, _good_ and I stared at him, stunned and desperate for more – not more interesting, not more intense, just _more_ of the same – and so he gave it to me, his strong finger so soft and careful and uncertain, till my thighs trembled and clamped around his wrist and white light flickered at the corners of my eyes.

One of our most memorable intimate experiences came about shortly after we were married, lying together on the sofa and drowsily watching an old movie, with Peeta spooned against my back. His hand skimmed over my hip to the waistband of my sweats – _Is this okay?_ he murmured, hooking a fingertip under the elastic – and at my nod he slipped his hand down inside my underwear, eased his middle finger into the damp groove between the folds, and simply began to stroke me, over and over and over again, as he pressed little kisses to my temple, cheek, and ear. I didn’t know if he was heading for something in particular – he told me after that he hadn’t been; he was simply touching me because we both liked it – or if I even cared if we got there; it just felt so _good_ , I scooted back to try and open my thighs a little more for him.

All of a sudden it felt _too_ good and not nearly good enough and I scrambled out of my sweats and underwear like both were on fire. _More,_ I begged, stretching out in front of him again, and I hooked my top leg behind his and lifted my inner thigh with a hand to open me further still. I was slippery beneath his fingers and he eased the middle one gently inside me – still not with any particular intent, just timidly, carefully deepening the touch as he continued to stroke, only from the _inside_ , his breath catching against my neck as his strong finger glided in and out and _in_ , till it was buried to the root in me. And then that was nowhere near enough and my hips were moving of their own volition, desperate to drive him deeper still, and I whimpered like a wounded thing and tears burned in my eyes at _how_ _much_ and _nowhere near enough_ this felt.

Peeta stilled his hand with a broken apology and tried to move it away, afraid he was hurting me, but I caught him before he could, threaded him clumsily back into that pulsing hollowness and held him there, buried so deep, as I rocked and sobbed and finally spent myself on one finger of his strong right hand.

 _That was incredible,_ he whispered, his mouth, wet against my neck, bringing me gently back to earth. _I love you, Katniss._

 _Love you too,_ I panted. _So much._

I felt vaguely that I should do something pleasurable for him in return but my body wouldn’t move, not even to free his hand, for several minutes after, and as he’s told me from the beginning, that’s not how lovemaking – or for that matter, marriage in general – works. It’s not a balance sheet of orgasms, making sure every tender “service” is repaid with something of equal value – or greater, requiring immediate remuneration; it’s about demonstrating your love for one another, body and soul, in a manner that you genuinely enjoy.

 _I don’t want you to do anything you don’t enjoy or that you feel like you have to do,_ he said, hoarsely but fierce, the moment my mouth first shyly brushed the head of his penis.

 _I want to do this,_ I assured him honestly. _So badly. I think I might really like it._

Twenty years later it’s still so gloriously true, and I smile at him with my eyes as I suck happily away, bobbing my head a little to bring him deeper and give him that wet, gliding motion that makes him shiver and come undone. Peeta groans and rocks his hips beneath me but he’s smiling too, if a little tightly.

They don’t tell you how incredibly _joyful_ this can be. How engaging in the most intimate acts with your spouse isn’t always daring or thrilling or even particularly sexy. Sometimes it just feels like _home_.

I cup his heavy testes – those woefully underappreciated organs, so aptly nicknamed “the family jewels” – and gently sift and stroke and squeeze. Of course, I have several reasons for valuing this particular part of him, one of which is on her way home for the weekend at this very moment, and I chuckle at the thought.

“Stop thinking sweet nothings at my sperm,” he pants – he’s trying to joke but he’s so close he can barely choke out the words. “I’d give anything to have another baby, Katniss. To come deep inside you and watch your belly swell and –”

He breaks off with a cry, his hips jerking sharply as he spills into my mouth: a deep, vigorous spurt that I swallow without thought, but of course, this is hardly the end. I smile as I patiently continue to suckle, a little softer now, till his penis is limp and heavy in my mouth, then I ease back, so gently, till I’m cradling him in my palms like some precious, weary treasure.

I love this part of him, not just when it's hard and throbbing and buried inside me, and I kiss and nuzzle its flaccid length with tenderness and affection; even gratitude. It’s a thing of beauty, even spent and drained of what some might consider its usefulness, and I stroke it with featherlight fingertips before making my way up to the musky thatch of his groin, dispensing little tickling kisses and nibbles in every sweet crook and hollow.

“You're ridiculous,” he says weakly, his features slack and utterly radiant as his hand fumbles tenderly into my hair.

“I love you all, and all of you,” I remind him, smiling as I nip at one perfect hipbone. He’s still wearing his stocking cap, which I find adorable beyond measure. “No part of you is any less worthy of kisses.”

“What about _more_ worthy?” he wonders.

“Does your poor mouth need a kiss too?” I tease, but tenderly. Kissing falls by the wayside so easily, especially when you both work so much and the only time you’re home together is when your teenage son is underfoot.

I climb up his body and straddle his belly on my knees, nibbling softly at his beloved mouth as his arms come up to enfold me. “Oh, sweet boy,” I sigh, sinking against him.

He moans sharply in response and I realize my groin is nestled against his navel, the cleft already pleasantly warm and slippery with arousal. The wetness doesn't always come so quickly anymore, so when it does, it's definite grounds for elation.

“Please, can you straddle my face?” he begs, still breathless from his climax. “I so badly want to feel you clench and tremble and melt against my mouth.”

I shudder exquisitely at the beauty of his tongue – both its words and the bliss they promise – but I can’t quite resist a protest of mock-horror. “Our daughter will be home in a few hours to kiss that face!” I remind him.

“And she came out of that place,” he reminds me, teasing in turn. “Face up, as I recall.”

I scowl at this but without any real fire, and he quickly kisses it away. “I’ll use your special face scrub before she gets here,” he promises, “and take a nice long shower. Possibly with you.”

“Of course with me!” I reply, scandalized. “That’s our last, best chance for fun before our house is overrun by two teenagers for the better part of the weekend!“

He chuckles in agreement but there’s something thoughtful simmering in his bright eyes.

“What’s wrong, old man?” I entreat, kissing those somber eyes. “Feeling your age all of a sudden?”

“Maybe this is the year we talk to them about things,” he says at last. “Sex things, I mean.”

“Didn’t we do that in fifth grade?” I puzzle. “When they came home with the special booklets?”

“Well, things are different now, aren’t they?” he says, frowning. “They’re growing up in a world where blow jobs and Brazilians are the stuff of first dates, and…and sometimes I think it would be nice if they knew there was another way, you know?”

I nuzzle the furrow from his brow, not yet a permanent fixture on his round, boyish face. “I think we’ve done a pretty good job of leading by example,” I soothe. “As far as I know, they’re not even working on their first kisses yet.”

“They’re not,” he agrees, to my inward relief, because Ashpet’s never confided in me the way she does to her dad and I’ve been holding my breath ever since we drove away from her dorm. “But sometimes I just wish it wasn’t so…well, _icky_ for parents to have a sex life,” he says.

“I think that’s every generation’s curse,” I reply. “Remember Mom and, ‘Sex is better after thirty-five?’”

“Oh Lord!” he groans.

While it didn’t particularly surprise anyone when Peeta’s father and my mother got together, that didn’t mean we wanted to think about any part of what that relationship entailed. Seeing them kiss was uncomfortable enough, and they were doing a sight more than that from the get-go.

“And considering how well Janni reacted to finding that receipt for condoms,” I remind him with a wince, “I don’t make much of our chances for a cozy family chat about how nice oral sex can be.”

“But it _is,_ ” he says, almost sadly. “When you’re so in love with your spouse that it just _overflows_ into that, it’s not just a _can_ –”

I gently still his mouth with mine. “So we find a way to bring it up,” I say. “Maybe even this weekend, if you’re feeling brave.”

“I almost wish they could walk in on us,” he laments, only half-joking. “As horrifying as it would be on both ends, it would be a sight less painful than finding a way to initiate that conversation.”

“Maybe,” I murmur. “And maybe not.”

He tips his head a little, considering. “You’re planning something,” he realizes.

“Not exactly,” I admit. “But I’m thinking about it.”

This time he kisses my frown away. “Do you want to talk about it?” he wonders. “Or do you want me to distract you so you can avoid thinking about it for as long as possible?”

I kiss his mouth, long and slow, and tug off his cap. “I want to make love with you for the rest of the afternoon,” I answer huskily. “I’m not too hung up on the particulars of how it unfolds.”

“So you’ll let me...” He turns red as a beet, my beautiful, bashful husband, and gives a giddy, hopeful laugh. “You’ll…ride my mouth?”

My belly clenches deep and fiercely as I consider. “Can I have it both ways?” I ask. “Can we start out one way and finish in the other?”

His eyes glaze a little at the suggestion. “We can do absolutely anything – and _everything_ – you want, sweetheart,” he rasps. “What do you want me to do?”

Trembling with anticipation, I ease off him, grab two pillows for support, and lie back against the foot-end of the bed – directly opposite him – and let my thighs fall open. Peeta’s jaw slacks with a sound somewhere between a gasp, a groan, and a cry of longing and he’s on his knees between my legs in a heartbeat. “ _Oh yes,_ ” he whispers, and then he’s leaning on his elbows and grazing through my pubic hair with nose and lips and tongue, eager but so excruciatingly patient. The tip of his tongue just brushes the damp groove between the folds and my hand is tangled in his curls, anchoring him where I want – no, _need_ – him before I realize I’ve moved.

“Oh, please,” I whisper. “Please, can you lick me?”

He moans loud and long, because even after twenty years of sharing a marriage bed, I’m still shy about asking for intimate things and when I do, it’s like I’ve granted all his wishes at once. “Oh sweet God, _yes,_ ” he groans. “Where and how? Tell me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut because there are words I can think freely that are sheer hell to say aloud, and I wouldn’t put myself through it if I didn’t know how moving it is for my silver-tongued husband, to whom words are life, to hear. “C-Clitoris,” I whisper, and shiver at his gasp. “And…and all around it. Slow and steady.”

“For the rest of the day, if you want,” he swears, easing apart the swollen folds with his thumbs to expose that tender nubbin of pure sensation in its glistening pink furrow, and he moans desperately at the sight. “For the rest of your life, if you want,” he whispers, and then his face dips and nestles and his tongue is _there_ : lapping at me, so soft and steady and patient that I almost burst into tears at the feel of it.

No one tells you how incredibly, excruciatingly _sweet_ this is. They tell you it’s the hottest thing to experience – or perish the thought, _watch_ – and that the guy who offers to do it without asking for the equivalent in return is a keeper, but no one ever seems to mention that you’re presenting the most vulnerable part of your body to a man’s mouth – a fierce, unpredictable, even cruel thing – and hoping beyond hope that he not only doesn’t flinch away from its strange appearance and fluids and odors but venerates it as something precious beyond measure.

I was never afraid of Peeta’s sweet mouth, but I did shrink from his whispered entreaty the first time.

 _Why?_   was really the only question I needed to ask, as I gaped at him over my hastily closed thighs.

 _Because I love you all, and all of you,_ my young husband replied. _These are your most precious and secret parts, that only I will ever see and touch, and I want to cherish them – cherish_ you _– in the most intimate way possible._

He eased into it, so patient and gentle, kissing everything between my navel and my inner thighs and letting me open to him when I was ready, which happened about a half-second after his tongue dipped carefully between the folds, still pressed together by my closed thighs. My legs fell wide, giving him access to everything he wanted and _still_ he was patient – and of course, more than a little uncertain – tracing between the folds with his tongue, sinking a little deeper each time till he brushed the slippery hollow and the veiled bud within and we both cried out. But even then he didn’t open me but licked and licked right where he was, his tongue warm and soft as it moved between my labia and savored everything in its path, the slick sensitive inner lips as much as that tiny, wild spot of breathtaking _goodness_.

It took no more than that – the slow, thorough, gentle lap of Peeta’s tongue – to crumble me to pieces, and it still doesn’t. Some things make it happen a little faster, but neither of us has any interest in rushing. It’s not unheard of for Peeta to spend a full golden hour with his face between my legs, savoring and soothing me all at once and not pushing for a peak until I want it – and even then, easing toward it with such gentleness that I can’t help but sob as I shudder and melt beneath the unhurried adoration of his tongue.

He’s a shade more earnest today, doubtless because he wants me on his face, and that always means a deeper, harder climax. His tongue flickers now and again, almost – _almost_ – teasing, because it’s not _quite_ what I want, and the best way to ensure the wet, deep strokes that I love is to straddle his face and ride his mouth.

I curl my fingers in his hair and rock my hips, almost involuntarily, stroking my clitoris against his tongue and making him groan, a low primal hum that makes my pelvis feel like it’s about to burst.

He lifts his head slightly. “Now?” he rasps, and rolls to his back at my nod. The seconds-long pause is more than enough to make me desperate, and I practically fall onto his waiting mouth, bracing myself on hands and wide-spread knees as I rock and twist my hips, rubbing and dragging and pumping against his dancing tongue. He holds me open for optimal access and I dip my head to watch him: my sweet overgrown boy of a husband, his bright eyes half-closed and glazed with bliss, licking wildly at the secret parts between my legs, like they’re the most exquisite dish he’s ever tasted and he wants to devour it and make it last forever all at once.

“Oh God,” I moan, because sometimes _seeing_ is the most incredible part of all. When he has a beard it’s even _more_ arousing, somehow, and I know he’ll happily start his winter shaving ban today if I ask him – which I resolve to do before Ashpet gets home.

My buttocks clench, tight and fierce, as the pleasure peaks and I suck in a shallow shuddering breath, clutching at the edge of the precipice.

“Let go, Katniss,” he murmurs against me. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

I arch back with a whimper, pressing as hard as I can against the sudden, rapid flicker of his tongue, and collapse onto his mouth.

I don’t know how in twenty years of this I haven’t dislocated his jaw or asphyxiated him at the very least, especially when I was 41 weeks pregnant with Ashpet, but every single time he emerges from between my legs, flushed but unscathed and utterly, _stupidly_ happy.

He gives a muffled moan beneath my weight and begins licking me again, eagerly this time and punctuated with deep, contented grunts and swallows, as he laps up every drop of the tangy fluid that my body releases in answer to his.

“I love you,” I croak, cupping his head between my legs, and his eyes smile up at me.

He lifts me off his mouth just enough to ask, “Does that mean we can maybe do this again sometime?” His lips are glistening and his expression is positively incandescent.

“I suppose so,” I pant. “Once a year, on your birthday, if you’re a good boy.”

He grins like a fool. “Happy birthday to _meeeeeeeeeeeee!_ ” he exclaims, triumphantly giddy, and rolls me to my back to continue his greedy ministrations between my limp, sprawled legs.

The magazines don’t talk about after the orgasm, but sometimes that’s the best part. When you’re both spent and blissful and boneless and you just keep doing the thing that got you there because you still enjoy it and it still feels so good to them.

“You’re so wet today,” he grunts happily between laps. “You taste like heaven.”

“You’re wasting your best material,” I tease weakly, combing both hands through his curls. “You’re supposed to say those things during the act, when it counts.”

“It _always_ counts,” he declares, nuzzling the curly mound of my groin and burrowing his nose into it with a deep sigh. “And you’re beautiful too,” he murmurs. “All over the place, and especially right here.”

“Hair and all?” I ask playfully, but I already know the answer. Peeta finds my pubic hair unbelievably alluring – both the verdant bush of curls I sported as a young bride and the sparser growth my thirtysomething maternal body produces – and the moment he discovered what a Brazilian wax was, he texted in a panic to beg me to never even consider it. In this bizarre era where intimate waxing has practically become a prerequisite for sex, it’s a relief and strangely exhilarating all at once.

“Mmm,” he groans. “You have no idea.”

He rests his chin on my pubic bone and gives me an impish smile. “Now, is it really so disgusting to think of parents doing this?” he wonders.

“Ours, _yes,_ ” I reply with a wrinkle of my nose and zero hesitation. “They’re in their sixties, you know.”

“So they need to take a little more time at it,” he teases, but there’s a nugget of seriousness beneath. “And as we both know, _everything_ is better when you’re not in a hurry.” He dips his head and edges me open with his mouth, just enough to close his lips around my clitoris in a wet suckling kiss, in case I need a reminder of things that feel glorious when you take them slow.

“ _Oh_ , that’s nice,” I sigh. I’m spent from my ride but my body rallies quicker than his; just a few more minutes of what he’s doing now and it’ll be ready to go again. I want him inside me for that, but this feels too good to refuse.

He continues, his mouth soft and sweet and _so_ very wet, making little sounds in his throat that curl my belly in delicious ways. “Don’t you want to be doing this when we’re in our sixties?” he murmurs, half-playful and half-enticing.

“With any luck we'll be working on great-grandbabies then,” I retort, but breathily, because the pleasure-tension is already building, faintly but irresistible. “And you'll be hauling hundred-pound sacks of flour and wrestling with burly college boys like some kind of gray-bearded god –”

He chuckles at the image and lifts his head. “Only if my gorgeous archer-arborist wife is watching,” he replies, taking over between my legs with his fingers. “I need to keep my butt in prime condition for that.”

“Ooh, speaking of which: turn over,” I pant mischievously. “I haven't seen your buns since you got out of bed this morning, and I could use a little snack.”

Peeta typically goes to bed in a t-shirt and undershorts but it's really just a courtesy for the kids, because neither garment is ever long for this world. We don't have sex every night, of course, but unless it's prohibitively cold, Peeta's always naked under the covers. He's naturally warm as a stove and I love every inch of his body, even and especially his backside.

That doesn't mean I don't giggle at the sight of it sometimes, but of course, I giggle at the front side too.

The first time Peeta’s buns emerged from our bed was on our wedding night, after we first made love. We wept and kissed and cuddled and then did it all over again, start to finish, and my sweet young husband wanted to run me a warm bath with soothing herbs and oils he’d purchased expressly to help with any post-coital soreness.

I discovered later that he’d consulted with my mother about this, which was equal parts adorable and mortifying.

So he kissed me a hundred times and whispered the most beautiful tender things, then he slipped out of bed and turned toward the bathroom and there was his backside in full glory, magnificent and hysterically funny all at once.

Peeta has buttocks like an anatomical diagram, albeit a little squarer and meatier, courtesy of his stocky build, a lifelong passion for wrestling, and his propensity for lifting hundred-pound sacks of flour _properly_ – all legs and strong, solid glutes. They’re sort of a ruddy shade of pale like the rest of him, as his fair skin burns too easily for him to even consider ditching his shirt in the sun, and dusted with very fine, soft blond hair.

For a moment I just gaped after him, trying to decide whether to avert my eyes or drink in the sight because _this_ was the man I married, whole and entire, and when he disappeared into the bathroom I buried my face in the pillows and laughed so hard I cried.

I was still in tears when he emerged a few minutes later, candles lit and tub filling, and once I managed to articulate that I wasn’t sad or hurt – that I was laughing about seeing his naked _butt_ – his hopeful penis wilted between his legs like a cartoon flower, which sent me into paroxysms of laughter all over again.

It took a few months of waking up beside my naked, gently snoring husband and shyly exploring the cleft and curves of his powerful buttocks, first with my fingertips and later, more bravely, with my lips, and then I adored them just as much as every other part of him, albeit in a _slightly_ more amused fashion.

“Roll over, old man,” I insist, even as he tickles my clitoris delightfully. “I want to nibble on your downy buns.”

The magazines don’t tell you that there’s a lot of start-and-stop where sex is concerned, especially in a marriage. They make it out like there’s a “go” button and then it’s a direct, immediate succession of sucking and thrusting and fluids spurting everywhere, and the point of no return is when you pull each other’s underwear down.

Fortunately, I know there’s _endless_ more delightfulness where the present is coming from and I want another crack – no pun intended – at my husband’s delicious body first.

“No,” he grouses, but playfully; without any real objection. “You’ll only make fun of me and wilt my penis again. Let me pet you some more,” he cajoles silkily, using two fingers to tickle and making me wriggle with pleasure. “See, isn’t that nicer than nibbling on my butt-cheeks?”

A muffled chirp emits from the heap of his jeans on the floor and our eyes lock. It’s Ashpet’s text alert, and Peeta’s been dying to hear from her all day. Absolutely nothing will stop him from reading that text, but he has to turn over to retrieve his phone, and if he does, his buttocks are doomed.

“Go ahead,” I urge him wickedly. “She might need something, and if you don’t reply to her text, she’ll call.”

He’s not above answering Ashpet’s calls when we’re in intimate situations – on a very specific case-by-case basis, of course – but there’s no doubt in my mind that the last thing he wants to do at this precise moment is take a phone call, even from his favorite child. “Can you grab my phone for me, Katniss?” he asks, too casually.

“The text might be about me,” I point out, kidding of course, but the effect it has on Peeta is instantaneous. He glances between me and the floor and back again, his expression positively stricken. “But I suppose, if you insist –”

“ _No!_ ” he yelps and makes a lunge for his jeans, but I’ve always been quicker than a greased piglet and I’m on him in an instant, wrapping my arms around his hips as I nibble merrily at the firm flesh of his backside, making him writhe and squeal like a toddler.

“ _Nom nom nom!_ ” I growl in Cookie Monster fashion, my nibbles turning to greedy, open-mouthed munching. “You should have brought the bag of sweet rolls to the bedroom, old man – though I admit, I overwhelmingly prefer _these_ buns.”

“God, I love you,” he wheezes. “You’re ridiculous and perfect and I’m still not convinced you won’t eat me alive someday.”

“Lord knows I keep trying,” I tease, nuzzling the tender apex of his cleft with the tip of my nose and making him shudder. “Sometimes I’m astonished that there’s anything left of you below the waist.”

He looks at me over his shoulder, his bright eyes at once hot and hopeful, and just like that, I know exactly where this is going to end up.

“Your daughter’s on the phone,” I remind him.

“And my wife is in my bed,” he says softly, turning in the circle of my arms and slipping his own around me. “No contest.”

“So you _do_ love me more than Ashpet,” I remark – a weak jest, but with a thread of relief and realization beneath. “I wonder, you know, from time to time.”

“She _came from_ you, Katniss,” he breathes, his eyes troubled and a little sad. “How could you doubt it, even for a second?”

I kiss him fiercely – somehow all the explanation required – and we roll onto our sides in the hollow we’ve worn in the center of the mattress. “I love you, Katniss,” he murmurs, over and over between kisses. “Yes, I love our kids to pieces but without you there would be no kids to love.”

“The same could be said for you,” I remind him, but he shakes his head.

“I supply one tiny cell’s worth of chromosomes per child,” he dismisses. “You grow and incubate and give birth to these perfect, beautiful little humans, and when they come out you produce this utterly _magical_ milk that builds their immune systems and makes them thrive and even heals wounds.”

I smile at his impassioned, wistful tone. “You sound like you want to do it all over again,” I say lightly.

He releases me and rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “You know I do,” he whispers. “I haven’t said anything because we agreed, forever and ever ago, to stop after Janni, but then I see parents bringing their newborns into the bakery or I see Prim and Marko with their little ones and…I miss being a dad,” he says hoarsely.

I climb over him and kiss his mouth, so softly. “You’ll be a dad for the rest of your life, Peeta,” I soothe.

“I know,” he replies. “And I know that starting over with a new baby at our age would be crazy, but I –”

“Shh,” I croon against his mouth, because there are things I’m bursting to say but it’s not time yet, not quite. “Let me love you again, sweet boy.”

“You promised me something else,” he recalls, the hunger for intimacy momentarily overtaking the hunger for children in his eyes.

“If you’re sure,” I murmur, but there’s absolutely no question about anything when it comes to intimacy with Peeta and less still about this.

“ _Yes,_ ” he whispers. “If you want to, I mean.”

I roll off him without a word and curl him up onto his left side – the easier to lie on with his intact left leg – then I curl up on my right, my face opposite his groin and my groin opposite his face. His penis is firm and flushed with blood, and I lean in to greet it with a damp kiss.

“Oh _Katniss,_ ” he whimpers, and a slippery bead leaks out to kiss me in return.

I scoot forward, lifting his right leg to rest across my shoulder, and lay my cheek on his strong thigh, even as he inches forward to do the same for me, nestling his curly head between my parted legs. “ _Oh,_ that’s good, Peeta,” I whisper, because just lying like this, feeling his soft curls against my inner thighs and his warm breath against my cleft while the tender, velvety head of his penis brushes my mouth, is almost _more_ than enough.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” he rasps, his lips tickling my labia. “Just licking, or…or do you want my tongue inside you?”

It’s a fair question, and a rousing one. As much as I love his sweet silver tongue, it’s not quite the right shape or size for my vagina and there are other things I much prefer to have inside me. But this particular mutual act feels more like intercourse than the solo, partner-lavishing variety, and therefore, feeling even the tiniest part of Peeta moving in and out of me is very desirable indeed.

“I want you inside me,” I whisper, and his mouth sinks against me in a moan.

He starts slow and simply, his tongue tracing from the mouth of my vagina up – or rather, _down,_ in this position – deep between the labia, lavishing my clitoris with a few soft, wet laps, then following the same path back up again. It feels so nice that I half want to roll onto my back and spread my legs wide to give him optimal access, but the other half of me is aching for the heavy, petal-soft organ bobbing in my face, and I guide it into my mouth with a sigh, making Peeta’s hips jerk.

“ _So_ good,” he moans, a muffled whimper deep between my legs that makes me shiver in turn, and his tongue strokes me again and again as my mouth glides back and forth along the shaft, wet and soft and suckling.

It’s a true lovemaking, made even more apparent when his tongue ascends to trace the hollow and dip inside; gingerly to start, a shy, shallow plunge that feels slightly wrong and _wonderful_ all at once, but when I match my bobs and suckles to the movements of his tongue, he takes the needless hint and presses deeper – but still so carefully, contouring his tongue to the shape that feels best in that place.

I groan and sink further down the shaft, bringing him the deepest my mouth can accommodate, and he moans in return and buries his face in me, pressing his tongue as deep inside me as he can. “ _Yes,_ ” I whimper around my mouthful of him and we rock and strain and grind just like that, as though we can merge these mismatched parts of ourselves in the same way we join the perfectly paired ones: the deep, narrow hollow and the long swollen organ that was engineered to fill it.

He withdraws his tongue for a heartbeat, just long enough to pant, “I love you, Katniss,” and then he’s plunging between my legs and pulsing in my mouth at once, as though his tongue is racing to bring me to climax before his own orgasm incapacitates him. It’s never, _ever_ been a contest or a race with us, but Peeta’s overwhelming devotion naturally extends to our sexual relationship, and the idea of finishing before me, especially in a context like this, is downright heartbreaking to him.

Which is why he cries out like a wounded thing as he spills into my throat.

His tongue tries to keep its pace inside me but it’s no use: his leg is slumped heavily on my shoulder and he’s melting into the mattress, albeit with little sounds of dismay. I give his flaccid penis one last swift suck and ease out from between his legs, necessarily moving my pulsing groin away from his weary, despondent mouth. “Shh, sweet boy,” I soothe quickly, climbing up beside him. “Hand or leg?”

“Hand,” he says gratefully, rolling up onto me and bringing his right hand between my legs. He slides his thick middle finger up where his tongue had been a moment ago, and the mere dimensions are so good it almost finishes me then and there. “You wanted me inside,” he recalls, his mouth clambering sloppily over one breast as he pumps his finger quick and deep, making a delicious wet sound.

It’s the perfect combination – drowsy breast-sucking and rapid finger thrusts, to say nothing of all the incredible noises coming from his mouth and throat and the erotic rhythm of his finger plunging deeply into my slickness – and I climax so fast he almost can’t believe it. “But…but I can do _more_!” he whimpers, pumping his finger more vigorously still and rolling his mouth over to suck my other breast with a desperate grunt, and I’m not certain it’s unnecessary when it still feels so utterly, _wildly_ amazing.

“Oh, you incredible boy,” I whisper, petting his sweat-damp back with a shaky hand. “Everything you do is a thousand times more than enough. But if you’re still enjoying what you’re doing, carry on, by all means.”

He finger-thrusts a few more times, still caught up in his desperation to bring me as much pleasure as is humanly possible, but the drowsiness of his own release is finally catching up to his wrist and his movements are getting clumsier – while still exquisite and so sweet they bring tears to my eyes. He rests his hand on my hip, releases my breast in a slow wet slide, and gazes forlornly down at me.

“I screwed up,” he says in a small voice, and I hug him to me with a laugh of pure bliss.

“You like me too much,” I console him, gently teasing. “I could practically finish you with a look.”

“You _have_ , and more than once,” he groans against my neck. “If I was a good husband I’d have figured out how to hold on against the pull of your perfect starlight mouth, so I could make you feel even half as good as you do me.

“And I’m _old_!” he adds, lifting his head miserably. “I should have awesome control by now! We’ve been doing this for two _decades_ –”

“And every time is better than the last,” I tell him honestly and peck his mouth. “And as terrible as it feels to even mention this: you got me really wet this time.”

“But what good is – _oh!_ ” he squeals, eyes wide with elation, and he scrambles down to bury his face between my legs once more, greedily lapping up the slippery secretions.

“ _Such_ a good husband,” I sigh, hitching my hips a little wider to give him deeper access and patting his curly head like a child’s. I mean it as a joke, of course, but somehow Peeta makes it not only real but a standard to live up to. “You really don’t have to do that, you know,” I tell him, but weakly; my words slurred with pleasure, and he’s not put off in the least.

“Love this,” he grunts wetly, curling his tongue up between my labia to catch every last drop. “Love _you._ ”

“Love you too,” I answer, leaning up a little to caress his scalp with my fingertips.

His phone chirps again, but he doesn’t so much as hesitate in his licking.

“Well, now _I’m_ curious,” I chuckle after about thirty seconds with no reaction from him. “Okay if I get that?”

“As long as I don’t have to leave this place,” is the muffled answer. “You have no idea how amazing you _smell,_ Katniss.”

“Right, okay,” I say, blushing at his words, and lever us a little on the bed so I can stretch an arm over the edge to retrieve the phone, all the while with Peeta’s mouth fixed stubbornly, blissfully between my legs. “Now who’s ridiculous?” I tease.

He licks my clitoris rapidly in reply and I cup his sweet head with my free hand, arching a little against his tongue.

Peeta doesn’t lock his phone – we’re too old and prudish for sexting or naked SnapChat, so there’s never been a need, not to mention I’d know his code without having to think twice – and I open the texts from “Little Peep” with a tap.

_Agent Breadcrumb, this is Peepster. Have you secured the cargo for the Mothership?_

I grin. The espionage banter began when the kids were in grade school. Peeta stumbled across CBeebies Bedtime Stories on YouTube as a nightly treat for his budding little Anglophile and both he and Ashpet fell head over heels for _006 and a Bit_. They promptly gave each other silly spy names and have kept them in merry circulation ever since, with no indication that they intend to give it up anytime soon.

_Also: the ostriches will be swimming in tomato sauce this evening._

I chuckle, recalling the line from the story, and Peeta’s head pops up from between my legs. “How’s she doing?” he wonders, and pops his middle finger into his mouth for a long, rapturous suck.

“Still angling so hard for that MI6 job that she can taste it,” I reply, grinning and blushing at once, and proffer the phone. “She asked about ‘cargo for the Mothership,’ which I presume is a special request for pizza night?”

He takes the phone in his free hand and reads the messages with his finger still in his mouth, savoring the taste of _me_ that coats him to the root. A small, curious smile curls his lips at Ashpet’s query and he withdraws his finger, gazing up at me. “You really have no idea, do you?” he says softly.

“Idea about what?” I puzzle. “I presume she doesn’t _actually_ want chicken nuggets with lots of ketchup for supper.”

“Come here,” he says, tugging me back into our worn little hollow at the center of the bed, but this time he grabs a pillow and pulls a quilt up over us before wrapping me in his arms. It feels _beyond_ wonderful, just to be held naked by my equally naked husband and feel his sweet warm skin against every part of me.

“Your daughter,” he murmurs against my forehead, “misses _the dickens_ out of you. She knew we’d be having Papa and Peep’s Pizza Party tonight and she wanted to add something special just for you. You know how Marko’s been batch-testing his homemade pasta with the lunch crowd – and going on and on about launching an Italian restaurant, of course?”

“Is the Pizza Party menu expanding?” I ask faintly.

“To include Mama Peep’s Pasta Bar!” he replies triumphantly, pressing an affectionate kiss to my nose. “A build-your-own, all-you-can-eat buffet, which may or may not come with unlimited cheese buns.”  

I sniffle raggedly and Peeta inches back to take my face in his hands. “What’s wrong, sweets?” he asks, so gently. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Ashpet _misses_ me,” I whimper – and promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, enfolding me once more and rocking me against him. “I’ll never understand how you can’t see it. Ashpet _worships_ you.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I insist, rubbing my tears against his chest. “She’s your Little Peep, all funny spy codes and pizza parties.”

“I’m a baker, Katniss,” he soothes, easing his strong fingers amid the roots of my hair and combing through to the tips in long slow strokes that send exquisite shivers down my back. “I’m big and warm and lumpy. I smell like fresh bread 24/7 and I make pretty cakes – and when there’s energy left over, I paint pretty pictures. I do latte art on kids’ hot chocolate. I make pancakes with critter-shaped cookie cutters. I interact with birds like a freaking Disney princess. Heck, my grandma taught me how to braid a girl’s hair and decorate it with flowers and ribbons!” he exclaims. “That’s, like, little girl kryptonite.”

“You forgot the part about how you sew and own a cow, Mr. Napkin Head,” I grumble.

“No, that’s Marko,” he corrects with a patient chuckle. “And it’s goats and crocheting.”

All things considered, my sister’s brawny marshmallow of a husband is the most domestic of the Mellarks to date, but what really tips the scales are the three spoiled-rotten dairy goats living large in his backyard. They’re something of a gourmet’s dream, producing rich milk that magically transforms into decadent homemade cheeses, buttery caramel, and promising test batches of gelato for his Italian restaurant pipe dream – to say nothing of Prim’s sideline of goat milk skin care, bath soaks, and body butter.

And of course, having two tiny daughters currently in dance class and sharing an attic bedroom that looks like a taffeta-and-tulle circus doesn’t hurt the comparison either.

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” I ask dubiously.

“ _Yes!_ ” Peeta groans, taking my face in his hands and kissing me as hard as he can. “Katniss, you scale trees for a living – without a rope when no one’s watching. You catch turtles and toads with your bare hands and hunt deer with your father’s handmade longbow. You can literally catch fish with a piece of string. You can make _anything_ grow, even little dead twigs that the kids bring home. You’re the strongest, fiercest, most ingenious woman on God’s earth,” he says passionately, “and, as if that wasn’t enough, you have masses of jet-black hair, a face that makes college boys crash their shopping carts into endcaps, _impossibly_ long legs for your tiny, perfect body – and of course, a voice made of actual starlight. You’re like a Tolkien creation come to life,” he breathes. “I have absolutely no idea why you married me, but I know exactly why our daughter worships you.”

“You sweet stupid boy,” I sniffle, rolling him to his back so I can perch atop his belly and kiss away his despair. “I love you because you loved me – because a big, warm, lumpy boy saw this fierce, angry, starving girl and said, ‘That’s the one I want – the only one.’”

“The only one,” he echoes in a whisper, and I press my mouth over his for a long, tender moment.

“You won my trust with stolen bread,” I murmur, “like a wild duck’s, till I came to crave your company, and then your touch, and then I realized that I’d loved the big, warm, lumpy boy all along. I was just too scared – and too busy surviving – to open my heart to something soft and sweet and vulnerable.”

“That’s me, I take it,” he says hoarsely, a feeble joke, and I kiss him again.

“And the babies,” I remind him. “Before I let myself love you, I was terrified of bringing children into the world. Terrified of the dangers looming everywhere –”

“And then you married me straight out of high school and let me plant a baby in you that very night,” he remarks with a small, bittersweet smile.

“I loved you – and I _had_ you,” I explain, which he understands all too well. “A big, warm, incredibly _strong_ boy who not only _would_ throw himself between me and danger but does so at every opportunity. It may not be fashionable to fall for a protector and provider, but I can’t imagine my heart opening up for anyone else.”

“So It was all about bread and muscles?” he teases, but so lightly.

“And braids and ribbons and pretty cakes,” I admit, kissing the corners of his mouth up into a smile. “You said it yourself: you’re little girl kryptonite, and I was very much a little girl when we got married.”

“Oh, come here,” he groans, pulling me so deep and close, and our limbs wrap around each other and we just lie there, soaking up the scent and the heat and the _feel_ of each other’s body.

“My tiny, perfect wife,” he sighs, nuzzling my head. “We were so young when we started our family, but I can’t imagine having done it any other way.”

“You can’t imagine 2 a.m. feedings now?” I wonder impishly, and he moans in reply.

“I’d give _anything_ to have 2 a.m. feedings now,” he says. “To watch you wriggle out of your clothes like you’re shedding a false skin and latch a tiny squalling thing to your nipple, and then feel my entire being melt as the squalling stops and those wonderful little sucking sounds start. No matter how exhausted or cranky you were when the crying woke us,” he recalls, “when the baby started to suck, your face instantly softened into this expression of supreme and utter bliss.”

He sighs deeply and tucks me closer still. “But you were still so tired, so you crawled over to use me as a pillow while you nursed – sometimes even tugging my arms beneath yours for support – and nine times out of ten you fell asleep like that. Sometimes I got to move the baby to your other breast,” he adds, almost shyly, “and it was the most incredible thing, watching that tiny mouth latch on without any prompting or instruction.

“I always wondered how we would’ve managed twins,” he says wistfully. “Tandem feedings with Ashpet and Janni were the next best thing, I suppose, but I would’ve loved to watch you nursing two tiny little dark heads at once.”

“A dark head and a blond one,” I correct him lightly. “Fraternal twins.”

“That would’ve been nice too,” he concedes. “I’d rather have two tiny identical versions of you, of course, but one tiny you and one tiny me would’ve been okay too.”

“Better than no twins at all, surely,” I agree with a faint chuckle, and a silence falls between us.

“Katniss,” he says softly. “I still want those twins.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Can I…could we maybe…can I please come inside you?” he pleads, his sweet voice low and tremulous, and his penis stirs hopefully against my thigh. “God knows we both hate the condoms, and maybe nothing will come of it, but if you didn’t mind – I-I mean, if you were willing to carry another baby – I’d do _anything_ ,” he breathes. “ _Give_ you anything, and when the baby came I’d just – take over. I’d stay home and handle all the diapers and feeding and tantrums and naps –”

“And make me pump?” I wonder, chasing a scowl into my voice. “I know it’s supposed to be possible for a man to lactate, but I’m going to produce all that milk anyway–”

“Don’t make fun of me,” he says, leaning back to meet my eyes, and his own are almost desperate with hope. “We agreed to stop after Janni, so this is me asking for – _begging_ for – an extension.”

“Sounds more like an appeal to me,” I reply, allowing the tiniest of smiles to slip out. “You want to chuck our previous ‘two kids, no more diapers’ policy for whatever might happen next. One baby, two babies –”

“Our parents had a baby at forty-two,” he reminds me needlessly. “It’s _possible._ And I know Prim is almost ten years younger than Marko but he was forty when Tanni was born, and if the restaurant doesn’t launch this spring, they’ll probably start on yet _another_ baby.”

“Exactly how many babies are we talking here, Peeta?” I wonder, and reach toward the nightstand drawer, purportedly for a paper and pen for calculations. “Do we just keep trying till you get your twins –?”

He reaches past my hand to close the drawer and curl my hand inside his. “Yes and no,” he says quietly. “Yes, I’ve always wished we could’ve had twins, and I’d love to give it another try. But I’d be over the moon for even just one more child with you.

“Please, can we just _try_?” he pleads, his face alight with hope and hunger. “I know there are new obstacles with our age and your cycle being so inconsistent lately, and it might not even work, but I so badly want to try. _Please,_ Katniss,” he whispers, “can I come inside you and try to start a baby?”

I regard him for a very long moment and slowly shake my head. “It’s too late,” I say, and cover his mouth with a hand before a single word can escape his shattered face. “And if you’d let me open the stupid drawer thirty seconds ago,” I add mirthfully, “you’d understand why, and I guarantee you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.”

I reach back to the nightstand drawer and pull out not a piece of paper but a photograph – or rather, a sonogram, featuring two exquisite little forms, vaguely but undeniably human, snuggled together like mousekins in a nest despite the thin placental barrier between them.

“My cycle _has_ gotten inconsistent over the past few years,” I agree, handing him the picture. “But some days I’m still pretty darn certain where I’m at.”

He stares so hard at those two little lumps that I’m certain his eyes are burning a hole through the paper. “So, um…Prim’s pregnant again?” he says hoarsely, glancing up at me. “M-Marko’s finally getting his twins?”

I shake my head with a small smile.

“Johanna, then?” he says.

I pull a face of comic disgust and shake my head again.

“Your mom?” he wonders, a little desperately.

I grin and shake my head.

“Ashpet!” he decides wildly. “She – she finally told you something before me, and…a-and that’s why this weekend is such a big deal.”

“You know perfectly well it’s not Ashpet,” I admonish him gently, and he gazes up at me – really, truly looks at me for the first time since I handed him the sonogram – and his eyes are welling with an agonizing mix of elation and frantic disbelief.

“Katniss…” he breathes.

“I knew you’d get there eventually,” I chuckle, but it’s hard to joke when he’s on the verge of crumbling into a million pieces.

“Please tell me what I’m looking at and how it’s even possible,” he whispers.

“Well, it’s a sonogram,” I reply patiently. “They take a picture of what’s inside you using sound waves –”

“And it’s yours?” he interrupts, his sweet voice ragged with emotion.

I smile shyly and point at the name printed above the image: _MELLARK, KATNISS._

“And…and it’s _definitely_ a baby?” he croaks, a tear slipping down his right cheek, which he makes no move to wipe away. “They’re absolutely _positive_? It-It’s not fibroids or…or something worse?”

It’s a reasonable fear, especially considering my age, and I lean in to kiss away the tear track, which only succeeds in freeing more tears, from both eyes this time. “Fibroids don’t have a heartbeat,” I murmur gently. “And it’s definitely, positively, absolutely _two_ babies.”

My stocky, powerful husband crumples into my arms with a sob. “Oh _Katniss_ ,” he whimpers as I rock him. “Oh, Katniss, Katniss, _Katniss…!_ ”

“Oh, sweet boy,” I croon, burrowing my face into his curls and pressing damp kisses among the roots. “You’re going to be a daddy all over again.”

“H-How old are they?” he chokes out, and I rest my head against his, bracing for his response.

“Twelve weeks,” I tell him softly. “Or ten, strictly speaking, without those extra two they always tack on.”

As I expected, he pulls back – but not away, his strong arms still firmly encircling my waist. “Twelve weeks?” he echoes, wiping one wet cheek against his shoulder. “You’ve been pregnant for almost three months and you didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to wait till it was safe,” I explain, unashamed but saddened nonetheless for his sake. “If I’d told you I was pregnant and I miscarried, it would have shattered you. If I’d told you it was twins and we lost one, it would’ve shattered you. It would’ve shattered you even if all we did was agree to try again and I didn’t conceive. I’m very good at protecting things,” I remind him quietly, “so that’s what I did for these past three months: protected the babies inside me while protecting their father from the pain of shattered hopes.”

“Three months,” he says thoughtfully. “What changed three months ago?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, as such,” I admit. “Ashpet was packing for college, Janni was gearing up for his senior year of high school, and we had an entire weekend to ourselves.”

“Lydda’s going-away sleepover,” he recalls with a smile. “Janni was camping with Jo and Luka and all the girls were at Mom and Dad’s, looking through their Sweden scrapbooks and travel guides and brainstorming ideas for her free time –”

“While we shared tepid showers and moonbathed naked in the backyard and fed each other drops of honeysuckle nectar,” I chime in playfully. “August has never been my favorite month, but you _do_ have ways of making it downright tolerable.”

“We made love about fifteen times that weekend, if memory serves,” he says huskily. “And every single time ‘without a net,’ as it were, because _someone_ assured me it was okay.” He raises his brows meaningfully and I have the courtesy to blush.

“Before you go scolding me, husband,” I warn with a smirk, “I’d like to remind you that every single time we _have_ made love ‘without a net,’ as it were, you have done absolutely _everything_ in your power to get me pregnant.”

“I beg your pardon!” he sputters, even as his face flushes a violent crimson.

“ _Please, can I be on top?_ ” I recall plaintively, mimicking his pleas on any and all of the occasions when we made love without contraception of any kind. “ _Please, let me stay inside you while we sleep. Please, I know the kids are waking up – coming home – knocking on the door,_ ” I embellish impishly, “ _but please, can’t we do it one more time?_ ”

“I happen to love making love with my wife,” he protests, mock-wounded and blushing like a beet. “None of those things are inappropriate or out of the ordinary, and there’s no scientific evidence proving that any of it promotes conception.”

“I watched your face when you were inside me,” I remind him, more tenderly than playful. “Any time I wasn’t on the pill or you weren’t wearing a condom – when there was no concrete obstacle to conception – you had this look in your eyes as you pumped as deep as you possibly could, trying to reach that magical place where a baby might be started.”

“What look?” he wonders.

“This one,” I murmur, kissing his eyes. “Hope and hunger. You knew it was almost impossible but you still hoped that maybe, just _maybe_ , a baby might result from one of those interludes. Sometimes you even danced around the subject –”

“Or raised it outright,” he reminds me abashedly.

“But you never came out and _asked_ me,” I remind him in turn. “You’d talk about how nice it would be to have another baby and even wished out loud for another one, but until today, you never once asked me to consider it.”

“We agreed after Janni,” he says simply. “And we had an amazing time, having our two kids when we were little more than kids ourselves and powering through the ornery stretches of their childhood in our younger, more energetic days – ”

“But you always wanted more kids,” I break in gently. “You wanted your twins.”

“Of course I did,” he confesses in a whisper. “And with Peep gone and Janni leaving in less than a year, the ache got bigger and louder and hungrier, till I couldn’t keep it inside any longer. We’re still so young, Katniss,” he murmurs. “I thought…with a soon-to-be empty nest, maybe you’d be up for filling it with some new birds.”

“I guess that’s an obvious _yes,_ ” I giggle, tipping my head toward the picture of our incubating chicks, where it lies beside us on the mattress, and he hefts me up into his lap, splaying my legs around his hips.

“Yes, about that,” he says, pointedly but with unmistakable delight. “One gets the feeling you went into this rather, erm, intentionally.”

I grin like a fool. “Not to begin with, but ultimately, yes,” I reply. “Remember our stint with NFP?”

Natural Family Planning would have been an answer to prayer had my cycle been a little more obliging and the notion of poking around my cervix less miserable. We tried it for a while, but with two small kids and harrowing work schedules, it was one extra thing to keep track of – not to mention, I hated the mucus checks with a passion. It was uncomfortable and invasive and Prim – a huge proponent of NFP, both personally and professionally – suggested having Peeta do it, even making it part of foreplay, but that just made it feel like a pelvic exam, which I’d avoided like the plague before getting pregnant and equally after our kids were born.

“I’d call it ‘the good old days,’ except I know how miserable the mucus checks were for you,” he replies, kissing my cheek. “What about it?”

“Well, when I woke up that Friday morning I felt…interesting,” I explain, blushing hotly. “Call it going into heat, estrus, whatever you will, but I felt ravenous for you and fertile all at once, so I, um…checked my cervical mucus, just for kicks.”

His brows fly up to his hairline. “You _what_?” he blurts. “Of your own free will? Without a mild sedative or a shot of booze?”

“It was textbook egg-white,” I reply, downright gleefully. “I squealed out loud – almost woke the kids – and that was when I realized how badly I wanted this, _all_ of this, all over again. I knew if I told you not to worry about protection, you’d make love to me with everything you had, all weekend long,” I admit, ducking my head. “And maybe nothing would come of it, but…I knew how badly you wanted another baby, and now I wanted one just as badly myself. So, the weekend happened –”

“And _gloriously_ , I might add,” he puts in, and I kiss him squarely on the mouth.

“I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I’d bet my bottom dollar the new peeps were conceived by moonlight on this very quilt in a nest of purple clover,” I murmur. “You looked so beautiful when you spilled inside me, framed by honeysuckle vines and summer stars – like you were in heaven.”

“I _was_ ,” he moans. “In more ways than one. You have no idea how stunning you are when there’s nothing between us and you just open yourself to me – and to the possibility of what we might create together.”

I kiss him again, fiercely this time. “Did you know?” I ask huskily, but he shakes his head.

“I hoped,” he murmurs. “All I knew is that you didn’t want a barrier between us, and that was more than enough to build a pipe dream on.”

“I _never_ wanted a barrier between us,” I whisper. “I understand why it came to that –” namely, unpleasant runs with several different birth control prescriptions and the stress and discomfort of NFP, all of which could be avoided entirely by a snug sheath of latex – “but that doesn’t mean I liked it, _ever_.”

“I noticed you were a little laxer about them over the past few months,” he remarks happily. “I thought it was something to do with your waning cycle, and of course I was over the moon to oblige.”

“And then some,” I tease. “Once I knew I was pregnant, I insisted on condoms about half of the time. Two-thirds would have been more convincing,” I say, “but we both hate them, and there was really no point anyway.”

“Speaking of,” he says lightly, “exactly how long _have_ you known?”

“Since two weeks after that glorious weekend,” I reply, “but I bought a test first thing that Monday morning and was practically counting down the hours till I could take it.” I smile up at him through a fierce blush. “We’d been making love like we were teenage newlyweds all over again and my body was primed to conceive, and I didn’t want to hope that it could have happened so quickly but I couldn’t _not_ check either. I called the clinic right after doing the home test,” I tell him, “and only just managed to book an appointment before bursting into tears. They confirmed that I was pregnant, but it was another three weeks before I had the ultrasound that showed twins. Two little sacs and two little heartbeats,” I whisper, touching his sweet mouth with a fingertip, and he kisses me with a desperate little sob.

“How could I not have noticed?” he moans. “I know it’s still so early but – your awful stomach flu,” he realizes suddenly, wide-eyed. “Before Little Peep left for school. We weren’t sure you’d be able to make the trip, you were throwing up so much.”

“Apparently, twins amplify _everything_ ,” I reply wryly. “I was so sure you’d guess, especially considering how bad my morning sickness was with Janni, but you just kept obliviously bringing me ice-cold Sprites and saltines and fresh puke pails like the perfect dad that you are.”

“I knew how hard it was on you, that she was going out of state,” he says, with a tender kiss to my forehead. “I thought it was anxiety nausea. If I’d known –”

“I was desperately trying to make sure that you _didn’t_ ,” I remind him. “Because you’re right, Ashpet going away shook me to my bones, and I was already so scared I’d lose the babies, even before the stress and anxiety of my firstborn leaving the nest.”

“Did you confide in anyone?” he asks, but gently, without accusation. “I can’t bear to think of you going through all that alone. You must have told Prim, or maybe your mom?”

“No,” I admit. “I called _your_ mom.”

“Ah,” he says with perfect understanding. “Of course you did.”

Peeta's mother is the puzzle piece that connects us all and yet no longer fits into the perfect picture that is our family. If the Mellarks were a fairy tale, Raisa would be the witch who was always doomed to lose everything in a gamble she never even made.

She’s nowhere to be found at family gatherings, and yet she’s everywhere you look. Peeta has her eyelashes – pale, lush, and endless – and Janni inherited them in his turn. Luka looks so much like her that your brain twinges when you see pictures of his late uncle, her twin brother; like you’ve literally seen a ghost, and his eldest daughter, Elske, named for Raisa's mother, has defiant copper lights – the infamous Brognar red – in her dark brown hair.

Peeta’s father Janek has undeniable artistic inclinations, typically observed in his approach to food, which he conveyed to all three of their sons through both nature and nurture, but Raisa has always been the superior artist, with an incredibly sensual eye that passed directly by blood to Peeta. Painting and sketching were something of a closet pleasure for her until after the divorce, when tapping freely into that creative outlet – opening the wellspring, more like – literally pulled her through. Her paintings have quietly made their way onto the walls of all of our houses, and she spent a good portion of last summer painting a picture-book-caliber fairytale mural of palaces and ponies and princesses over the walls of Marko’s attic, a special commission for her smallest granddaughters.

Their marriage was already on the skids when Peeta’s father reconnected with my mother, his high school sweetheart and almost-fiancée some twenty years ago; ironically, thrown back into close contact when Peeta and I started dating in our junior year of high school. It became immediately, painfully apparent that it wasn't mere friendship that was being rekindled, and Raisa moved in with her sister while divorce was discussed in hushed whispers. My mother tried to stay under the radar but it was her pregnancy, wildly unexpected for a 41-year-old woman, that finally prompted Janek to break from his wife, and their daughter Lydda – Peeta’s half-sister, and mine – was born just after Christmas of our senior year, one short month after the divorce was finalized. Janek and my mother had a quiet courthouse wedding the following February and Peeta and I were married that June, just after graduation.

Raisa justifiably hates my mother to this day but has a curious respect for me and even made a quiet appearance at my wedding. I put it down to a simple, begrudging acknowledgement of my ability to weather the poverty and starvation that struck my family after my father died and my mother went out of her mind with shock and grief, but she told me after Ashpet was born that it’s because I so resemble my father, who had always gone out of his way to be kind to her, despite their massive social divide.

When I asked Rooba about this later, she told me that her sister had quietly adored my father and they might well have married, had my mother not woken up to my father’s charms when she did and, in effect, ruined both of Raisa's chances for love.

Raisa knows more about grief and loss than anyone I’ve ever known, even my mother, who went into a sort of paralysis of grief at my father’s death, and she knows more about twins and the emotional side of pregnancy than my nurse-practitioner mother or certified nurse-midwife sister ever will. Twins run steadily in Raisa’s family, and not always happily: her twin brother died at 16 and she told me, some ten years into my marriage, that Peeta had had a "vanishing twin," reabsorbed after their initial sonogram. It had been too early to tell the sex of the lost embryo but she’s convinced that it was the daughter she had wanted so badly, and the resulting grief, which she was openly discouraged from expressing, is what initially fueled her resentment toward her innocent little son.

Peeta’s birth was unexpectedly difficult for a third baby and resulted in a uterine rupture. Remarkably, the doctor was able to repair rather than remove the organ and both mother and baby came through safely, but another pregnancy was declared “out of the question,” even if Raisa would have been willing to try again. Janek took incredible care of her, by all accounts, but they had three little boys – two of them nursing and in diapers – and a bakery to run. There was little time or energy for emotional recovery.

You’re not supposed to talk about miscarriage, let alone disappearing embryos that painlessly reabsorb, and you don't grieve a rupture that resulted in a healthy baby and didn't even cost you your uterus. And you’re certainly not supposed to grieve never being able to have a daughter when you have three healthy sons.

Naturally, when my mother had Janek’s daughter, one short month after the divorce was finalized, in a beautiful, uncomplicated home birth and smack in the middle of the holiday season to boot, Raisa unhinged into a pit of fury and grief.

While I can’t help but acknowledge that reuniting with her childhood sweetheart virtually brought my mother back to life and gave Peeta’s father a new lease on his own, the cost to Raisa has never sat right with me, never mind that she verbally and occasionally even physically lashed out at her sons in their youth. I made timid attempts to connect with her after our wedding but what finally won me a returned phone call was the news that I was pregnant with a baby girl; something I shared only with her and Peeta. Raisa and I met for a few silent, stilted coffee dates, and after Ashpet was born, delicious stews and roasts made a mysterious habit of appearing on our porch, still steaming hot, as did exquisite sketches and paintings of black-haired elves and fairies and princesses, which were duly hung in the nursery alongside Peeta’s own fairytale art.

Johanna, Luka’s fierce and feisty wife, has fared the best at bringing Raisa out of her angry shell over the years, but I’ve done my part to stay in touch, even if only through the exchange of Christmas letters and thank-you cards, and when the sonogram showed two tiny embryos, there was no one in the world I wanted to confide in other than Peeta’s mother.

Thus far, it’s proven one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

I stopped by her small house on my way home from the doctor’s, still trembling with equal measures of hope and terror, and mutely handed her the sonogram on the doorstep, by way of greeting. She stared at it, then at me, for an eternity, then she silently ushered me into the house, wrapped her arms about my shoulders and just held me for about fifteen minutes as I steadied my heart and lungs and tried desperately not to break down in tears.

I asked her to keep the sonogram, at least until the babies were far enough along to be “safe,” and she fixed it to her fridge with two fruit-shaped magnets.

The following week I texted to ask if she’d meet me for coffee, and when I arrived she was waiting with a square of soothing gingerbread and a decaf white mocha in a mug. I said little more than that I was scared, I loved Peeta, and I wanted these twins more than life itself and she said even less in reply, but once the gingerbread was gone, her strong pale hand settled over my callused dark one and remained there till my mug was empty.

After that we met for coffee every Tuesday before Peeta got off work, except this one, because I wanted the 12-week sonogram first, which took place first thing this morning. Once again I stood on her doorstep and proffered a picture, but when she looked at it this time, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. _I think it’s safe to tell him now,_ she said quietly, and invited me in for tea.

 _I know plaster’s not really my medium,_ she remarked as we sat on her back porch, sipping twin cups of earthy raspberry leaf tea in companionable silence, _but I’d like to do a belly cast for you, if you’re interested. And I’ve been reading this book_ – she held up a heavily bookmarked copy of _The First Forty Days: The Essential Art of Nourishing the New Mother_ , that had been laying open on the bench before we came outside. _It has some really amazing recipes and…and I could do this for you, if you want,_ she offered haltingly, not meeting my eyes. _I could stay in Ashpet’s room or just come over when Peeta leaves. I know he nests hard with a new little one, but he works hard too, and you’ll have two to care for this time. And I have no one else to look after –_

 _I want you to be there,_ I interrupted softly, not looking at her either. _For the birth, if you’re willing._

 _In the hospital?_ she wondered, but I could hear her smile, however faint and cautious, in those few words.

 _Hopefully_ not _the hospital,_ I replied, _but I’ve heard twins can be tricky. I saw this amazing blog post about a woman who had her daughter in the woods – on purpose – and I’d really love to do that, if it’s safe. I’ll send you the link,_ I said, finally looking up, and her smile deepened.

 _I’d like that,_ she replied.

“I may have invited her to the birth,” I tell Peeta, and he smiles.

“If you hadn’t, I would have – with your permission, of course,” he says. “She’s the last surviving Brognar twin, and she really needs to be there to welcome the newest ones.”

Gentle Peeta was quick to forgive his mother’s coldness, anger, and resentment, particularly after the divorce, when he saw what the loss did to her and how she furiously painted her way through the rage and grief, much as he did when he lost his leg.

“Also, I think she wants to move in with us for a month or so after the birth,” I add hesitantly. “I didn’t exactly say yes, but –”

“ _The First Forty Days_?” he guesses, eyes dancing. “I spotted a copy at Prim’s last time we were over and snapped screenshots of some of the recipes. I was sorely tempted to start feeding you mushrooms and seaweed to see if I could nourish you into a state of overwhelming fertility where I could practically wink at you and start a baby.”

“You’re not _that_ virile, old man,” I tease. “So is that a yes to your mom?”

“As much as I’d love to quit working forever when the twins come, I’ll eventually have to make at least token appearances at the bakery,” he admits. “So having Mom around would probably be a Godsend, if you’re okay with it. She’s an amazing cook, and those roasts and stews of hers did wonders to boost your energy after Ashpet’s birth.”

“And my milk production,” I recall wryly. “Are you sure this isn’t all a ploy to get your busty wife back?” I ask, but playfully. “I’ll have two little bellies to fill this time, you know, and that may well mean no stealthy sips left over for you.”

“I _do_ miss that sweet splash of breastmilk in my morning coffee,” he sighs, and the longing is far from feigned. “So I guess I’d better make up for it now –” he tips me back in his arms with a laugh and dips his head, only to look up before claiming a nipple, his lips already parted and his eyes wide with concern. “Unless you’re tender – _oh God!_ ” he cries in horror. “Twins amplify everything: how sore _are_ your poor breasts? And you let me go to town on them like –”

“I’ve never had first trimester breast tenderness,” I remind him, “and this round is no exception – at least not yet,” I warn mirthfully. “But in the event that this changes, you should probably take advantage while you can –”

He pulls me back to him with an eager laugh, lifting under my backside to bring my breast to his mouth for a wet leisurely suckle. “Mmm, _yes_ ,” he says throatily as I curl my arms around his neck, bringing us closer still. “No taking for granted and absolutely _no_ wasted time.”

“On a related note,” I begin, and he laughs huskily, releasing my breast to reply.

“Beard?” he guesses.

“Beard,” I confirm, my voice hot and ragged. “I want you bearded in my bed before Halloween and I want you to keep it _at least_ till the baptism, possibly longer – at my discretion.”

I watch the mental calculations in his eyes, even as they dilate with arousal at my words. “Babies should be here May…?” he begins.

“Seventh,” I supply with a tiny smile. “But it’s my third pregnancy and they tell me twins can be tricky, so I wouldn’t rule out the end of April.”

“I like May,” he says softly. “And if the babies came on the seventh, it would officially become my favorite month – to say nothing of my favorite week.”

“I’m not letting you get by with combined Mom-and-Baby presents, or parties,” I warn.

“I would never!” he exclaims, downright scandalized. “The twins get confetti pancakes and frosting and silliness all day long and at 11:55 I’m dropping them off at Marko’s and speeding home to wake you with cold chicken and cheese and cider.”

“I like this plan exceedingly,” I inform him, and heartily kiss his mouth.

“Separate placentas,” he says suddenly, recalling the detail from earlier. “That’s why you said fraternal, and I was so caught up in my pipe dreams I didn’t catch it.”

“Fraternal is likelier but identical is still possible,” I explain. “So you might get your two little dark heads yet, or two little blond heads, or one of each. Two boys, two girls, or one of each –”

“Jack and Elspeth,” he interjects happily. “I always wanted a boy we could name after your dad, and I think Prim’s been avoiding the name for that reason, just in case.”

“Well, and the fact that only two of her five kids are boys,” I point out. “And you Mellarks have this thing about passing down staunch old names.”

“Only for the first boy, strictly speaking,” he reminds me cheerfully. “Marko’s the firstborn and a traditionalist to boot, but I came from a beloved old story.”

“So you did,” I muse, cupping his beloved face in my hands. “The one with the little lame fox who’s really an enchanted princess and goes adventuring with the gentle third son before regaining her true form, or maybe ‘The Ugly Duckling,’ only the peasant who frees the little bird from the ice is a baker’s son, who warms and nourishes her back to health, and when she finally sees herself for the beautiful swan she is, instead of flying off to join the rest of her flock she transforms into a human girl and marries the sweet baker’s son.”

“I always thought we were more like ‘The White Cat,’" he says, “or better still, ‘Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Paribanou’ – you know, the youngest of three sons, a magic apple, a fate determined with arrows, and a powerful fairy bride. _Madam,_ ” he quotes softly, “ _should I all my life have the happiness of being your slave, and the admirer of the many charms which ravish my soul, I should think myself the most blessed of men._ ”

“ _Oh,_ that’s nice,” I sigh. “We should have a vow renewal before the babies come, where you publicly pledge yourself to me with choice quotes from your favorite fairy tales.”

“ _Right_ before,” he agrees in a murmur, dipping his face to nuzzle my neck. “When your breasts are ripe and your belly is lush and round and _so_ breathtakingly beautiful. You can wear something peach-colored and sheer that alternately flows and clings and makes you look like a goddess, and I’ll weave your hair full of violets and bleeding-hearts and paint our twins on your belly with henna.”

“I could go along with that,” I coo, letting my head fall back. “Let’s do it in the woods when I’m in early labor and then just stay out there to have the babies.”

“ _Do it_?” he echoes playfully. “Are we still talking about the vow renewal, Katniss? Or did you have something more, erm, _athletic_ in mind?”

I tip my head up to regard him with slitted, pleasure-hazed eyes. “You know,” I murmur, “while we can make love like insatiable newlyweds for the next six months or so, there will come a point when I really shouldn’t be on my back anymore, let alone with a big, warm, lumpy man on top of me.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says huskily. “We managed really, _really_ well before – it’s all about bolstering and keeping the baby off your blood flow. Both Ashpet and Janni got their little rumps facing forward in plenty of time, and I was practically still inside you when you started pushing –”

“But you realize, I’ll get bigger this time,” I warn in a teasingly seductive tone. “Downright _enormous_ , really _._ Heavy and bovine and –”

“ _Glorious,_ ” he breaks in, and silences me firmly with a kiss. “And before you even dare _suggest_ it, wife,” he murmurs, “no matter how bountiful your belly gets, you can ride my face until the moment of delivery if you want.”

“I’ll suffocate you for sure,” I protest, but I’m so happy and aroused by his offer that it almost _hurts._

“And you can resuscitate me after,” he assures me. “If you feel my tongue stop moving, just scoot back and give my chest a couple of compressions with your backside.”

“That might get enormous this time too,” I warn, and he _giggles._

“First of all, you’ve got the most perfect little buttocks in Christendom,” he informs me. “You always have, even when you were at your greatest-with-child. Secondly, you’re going to be up and down trees till someone – probably me – ties you into a chair,” he says, “which means constant toning for those legs and glutes, and thirdly, said legs and glutes have to balance and support a belly with two babies in it. Nine months of that and you’ll have buns of steel!” he declares merrily. “I couldn’t pinch your butt if I tried.”

“Oh, shut up,” I retort, hot-cheeked and melted to the bone by his silly, genuine praise, and kiss him before he can say another flattering word about my body.

“But why?” he wonders, surfacing with a grin and barely missing a beat. “I’ve barely said a word about your breasts – how the nipples get big and dark and _luscious_ …”

“Ugh!” I groan, but it’s a token protest because I’m tipped back in Peeta’s arms with his sweet mouth tugging greedily at my left breast.

“Not ready to share you,” he grunts. “Not these, at least.”

“You’ve got months upon months still,” I remind him, cupping his head and leaning up on my knees to deepen the contact. “Nipple stimulation helps induce labor and move it along, after all, and they _do_ say oral is the most effective.”

“Mmm,” he sighs. “That was my second favorite part of the birthing class, after ‘sexing the baby out.’ Who knew that childbirth could be as pleasurable as – and similar to – creating the baby in the first place?”

“Yes, let’s not tell the kids about that,” I say raggedly. “Not yet. I think they’re on to something in those sex ed classes with the agonizing childbirth stories. And it’s a really nice surprise when you feel like a Christmas goose in maternity jeans and the educator says, ‘Here are some entirely practical ways to get labor started.’”

“Deal,” he agrees, punctuating the word with a deep wet kiss to the valley between my breasts. “And speaking of sex –”

“Oh, were we?” I wonder impishly and he tackles me, but with the most exquisite care, laying me back against the pillows at the head of the bed.

“Can I please make love to the woman carrying my children?” he whispers, brushing his strong fingers over the tiny bud of my growing belly, and I shiver as tears prick the corners of my eyes.

“Say that again,” I beg.

“Can I please make love to the woman carrying my children?” he repeats, but hoarsely, and there’s a hot shimmer in his eyes too.

“It’s been so long,” I whisper brokenly. “I haven’t been that in almost eighteen years.”

“Let’s not wait so long next time,” he urges.

“Deal,” I agree, and pull him down to me.

After twenty years of marriage, lovemaking is as easy and natural as breathing, especially when we don’t have to move apart and scramble for a condom, and our mouths merge in a hushed dance as Peeta settles his broad torso between my legs. The velvety head of his penis noses its way from my belly to my thighs, here and there daubing me with a slick bead of anticipation, and I rub against it with a sigh. The feel of this part of him against my lower body is euphoric, and even when condoms are a must, we implement and draw out this particular contact as long as possible, so we can at least feel each other in this intimate fashion before sheathing him in latex for the heart of the act.

“Can I touch you?” he gasps, raising his head. “J-Just a little?”

“Of course you can,” I pant, and bring both hands between my legs to open the labia for him. Ordinarily he’d do this himself, nosing the folds apart with his penis and gliding slowly between them, but right now I’m craving that direct contact as quickly as possible – as is Peeta, if his groan at my action is any indication.

“Oh _Katniss,_ ” he moans, and he angles down slightly, catching the slickness at the mouth of my vagina with a shallow, tantalizing press of the head and slowly dragging it upward to rub my exposed clitoris, again and again, with firm, velvety flesh and the mingled slickness of our joint arousal.

“ _Oh!_ ” I cry and arch up slightly, because every single time this feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It’s a little like being touched by his finger only the skin is a hundred times softer, with its own source of lubrication, and I’m half-temped to curl a hand around the shaft to keep him just _there_ and simply let these tender, sensitive organs drift together in their own dazzling intercourse.

But that’s not the union either of us wants, not truly, and I press back against the pillows to angle my hips beseechingly, presenting his penis with the hollow it was created to fill. “You’re not wasting time today,” he whispers.

“We’ve wasted so much time already,” I tell him. “I want you inside me, so deep and warm and full, and I never, _ever_ want you to leave again.”

He obliges, taking an extra second to ease the head inside, as he always does when we have all the time in the world, then he sinks himself to the root in me with a low, blissful moan.

“Oh God,” I whimper. “Just _there_ ; just please stay right there,” because as amazing as the friction and rhythm of his eventual movements will feel, nothing can rival the sensation of my husband swelled up and buried all the way inside me, skin to skin: the missing, perfectly shaped piece to mend my perpetual emptiness.

The magazines don’t explain that your husband walks around with a strange, floppy organ hanging between his legs while you walk around with a keenly empty place in a remarkably similar shape, tucked away deep between your own legs, and that one day, driven by a bizarre instinct, he’ll push that organ – now erect and engorged with blood – up into your empty place and it’ll hurt, because it’s been hollow and aching for so long, like a wound you can’t remember how you got, and then suddenly the entire world will make sense.

They don’t talk about the profound significance of the _union_ , nor the simple, utter perfection of it. Whether you have one lover or twenty, the pursuit of pleasure is paramount, not this true marriage of flesh and blood and bone: the moist, snug shelter in which you embrace his tender organ, so long forced to weather the cold of the world outside the human body, or the way he swells up and sinks deep to fill your empty place so perfectly, like he _belongs_ there.

And of course, they certainly don’t talk about how all these strange, exquisite parts were created for a purpose far more monumental than the pleasure evoked when they come together. They toss around the word for the place where Peeta’s buried like it’s the embodiment of the female reproductive system, and you’d probably evoke mass nausea if you named its literal function, especially in a sexual context, never mind that intercourse is what starts the process that leads to that function in the first place.

“Birth canal,” I declare with a ridiculous breathy laugh, and Peeta kisses my mouth with a smile of his own, unsurprised – and entirely undisturbed – by the direction of my thoughts.

“So it is,” he marvels raggedly, rolling his hips a little from one side to the other to nestle himself in that place. “The husband's very heaven, the garden of bliss he delves and sows and waters, and – oh Lord, did you want me out?” he blurts, carefully withdrawing a little. “Is that why you – ”

I knot my legs behind him before he can get any further and tuck him back in, deep and snug. “Why would I _ever_ want you out?” I ask, rocking my pelvis around the comfort of his fullness, firm and thick and pulsing with warm blood. “I want you to stay inside me, Peeta,” I tell him fiercely, “keeping our babies safe and tucked away where they belong, and only leave me when they're literally pushing you out of the way.”

“That might be awkward to explain at work,” he pants, “but I'll do my best.”

We stay like that, melting into and around each other and savoring every minute shift that brings us into even a whisper of deeper union, till the desire to remain as tightly enmeshed as possible segues to a shiver of longing for movement. “Okay if I poke around a bit in my new home?” Peeta asks lightly. “It’s been a while, and I’d like to explore the rooms; see if there’s anything new I’ve been missing.”

“Provided you don’t leave,” I concede, as sternly as I can manage with a foolish grin, “and you don’t wake the babies.”

“Best house arrest _ever_ ,” he moans. “I might rock the cradles a bit, though. Is…is that okay?”

We had sex throughout my two previous pregnancies without hesitation, but I understand his concern for our precious twins, whose gestation is a little more tenuous and complex than Janni or Ashpet’s. “I asked the doctor three times today, just to be certain,” I assure him with a chuckle. “She said they’re perfectly healthy and happy with whatever we’ve been doing thus far, and as I don’t have a history of miscarriage and there are no complications as yet, there’s nothing whatsoever to contraindicate intercourse.”

“I still want to be gentle, though,” he says in a small voice.

“You’re never not,” I assure him, because even when we’re moving together exuberantly, sweaty and whimpering and even creaking the old box spring a bit, Peeta’s so exquisitely tender and careful, like he’s making love to someone he worships and he doesn’t want to hurt her in any way, be it as minor as inadvertently pinching or squishing some part of my body.

“But I want to be extra, _extra_ gentle this time,” he insists. “Like, baby shampoo gentle.”

“Newborn Dreft gentle,” I add with a giggle. “Angel Soft gentle.”

“No pressure, then,” he says, but with a grin.

“Well, you _are_ the very definition of ‘soft and strong,’” I point out merrily. “How do you think we paid for this house? All the royalties from toilet paper companies wanting to describe their product as –”

He stops my words – but not the laughter bubbling up beneath – with a sound, delicious kiss. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be on top?” he murmurs against my mouth. “Then I can lay there, obediently tucked inside, and you can decide exactly how much of me is allowed to slip out at any given time –”

“I want you on top, and so do you,” I remind him huskily. “You can move as much as you want, but for the love of God, _don’t leave me._ ”

“Never,” he swears. “Never ever _ever_.”

He carefully rocks his pelvis against mine, establishing a slow deep rhythm while our groins are still flush, then withdraws a fraction to initiate small, silky almost-thrusts, punctuated by the most delicious little desperate sounds from his throat. Movement does incredible things to Peeta, exposing this primal, moaning side of him that grunts and pants even as he sobs and whispers so tenderly, and watching him escalate, shatter, and crumple with bliss is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Is…is this okay?” he asks raggedly.

“ _So_ much more than okay,” I sigh. “And more is okay too. Move in me, Peeta,” I entreat softly. “You won’t hurt us, I promise.”

He closes his eyes with a groan and glides through me, wet and lush and _wonderful_ , easing out till all that remains inside me is the sweet, swollen head then immediately plunging back down to fill the void his absence created with his warm girth. “Still okay?” he pants, squeezing his eyes shut tighter still as he repeats the motion. “A-Am I pulling too far out?”

“It’s perfect,” I whisper, taking his face in my hands and kissing his eyes open as he moves in me, his thrusts long and deep and deliciously slow. “ _You_ ’re perfect. Let go, sweet boy,” I coax, gazing into his eyes with so much love I’m certain my heart is about to burst from my chest and bury itself in his. “Spill in me.”

“You’re not close enough,” he insists, but tightly. The underlying tremor within his thrusts is exquisitely apparent, and I know he’s still shamed by finishing before me earlier.

“So take me with you,” I gasp, and bring his right hand between my legs. “I’m closer than you think.”

We’ve both long-nourished the hope of simultaneous climaxes simply from intercourse, and while it’s _possible_ , it always seems to take me an excruciating half-second longer to careen over the edge, which of course makes my diligent, devoted husband feel like an impatient and selfish lover. So he tries to hold on beyond the limits of his endurance, which means a deep, shuddering climax when he finally _does_ let go, but exhilarating as that feels, there’s no need for it, not when a gentle sunburst of an orgasm will serve just as well.

“Stroke me like you wanted to earlier,” I urge him. “When I wanted to devour you and you tried to distract me with tickles and teasing. Your fingers feel like heaven.”

“Yes,” he groans gratefully, and I know he’s painfully close or he would’ve responded to the compliment. He curls his first two fingers against me in an alternating, almost musical pattern, like he’s brushing the sole string of the most delicate instrument in the world, and it’s exactly what I need.

“ _Yes…_ ” I moan in reply, because feeling him moving within and without is more than enough to shatter me, but my husband goes one better and catches a breast in his mouth, sucking with almost feverish desperation. I arch upward with a cry, grasping at his back and his hair at once as the climax overtakes me, and he abandons my clitoris to curl both arms beneath my back and hug me to him as he shudders and swells and spills inside me with a broken sob.

Crying at an orgasm is decidedly unsexy, they claim, to say nothing of hugging your spouse for dear life as you climax hard and deep inside her, but as a tear trickles down my own cheek, I pity anyone who takes what those experts say as gospel. “ _So_ good, Peeta,” I whisper against his curls. “You complete me.”

He shakes his head weakly against me and releases my breast to reply. “It’s you who completes _me_ ,” he says hoarsely. “You take this broken, lonely boy inside you and nourish him to wholeness, again and again and _again_ , and you even let him plant his very essence inside you and nurture and grow it into a beautiful brand-new life.”

“ _Two_ new little lives,” I remind him softly. “And they’ll be beautiful because the seed you planted in me was beautiful.”

He shakes his head again. “Ordinary,” he rasps. “ _So_ ordinary, but you enveloped it in your own essence to create something truly breathtaking.”

I lie back against the pillows and retrieve the sonogram from the opposite side of the mattress to lay over my damp belly. “ _Truly_ breathtaking,” I agree, “because they’re equal measures of _both_ of us.”

He traces the tiny forms with a fingertip, his lips curving into a drowsy, glorious smile. “They’re so beautiful, Katniss,” he whispers. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Wait till they come out,” I tell him with a grin. “Twenty fingers and twenty toes and two perfect little downy heads,” and he moves the sonogram aside to wrap me in his arms and roll us back and forth in the groove at the center of the bed with a chorus of happy groans.

“Twins!” he squeals against my hair, like an elated child. “We’re going to have _twins,_ Katniss!”

“Someone mentioned that to me too,” I tease. “Are you happy about this? I can’t quite tell.”

“ _More_ than happy,” he affirms. “ _Bursting_ with happiness. Practically _dying_ of happiness –”

“Not on my watch,” I warn, but playfully. “Absolutely no dying from you for any reason whatsoever.”

His penis is flaccid and shallow in me but he’s still there, soft and weary and content as a hatchling, and I am joyously and utterly complete. I roll him to his back with a grunt and nestle firmly over his groin, lest he think he’s getting out of here anytime soon. “What’s your pleasure, expectant papa?” I inquire happily. “You can have anything you want in all the world, so long as you don’t leave my birth canal.”

“That _is_ everything I want in all the world,” he replies, cupping my breasts and circling the nipples lazily with his thumbs. “Well, being inside you and the two little people in there that we created together.”

His stomach gives a timely, obstinate growl that I can feel as much as hear, and I giggle mercilessly. “Is that so?” I wonder.

“Well, _someone_ was going to make us a grazing tray,” he reminds me, raising his brows. “And then _didn’t_ , even after I insisted on bringing home soup and bread for stamina.”

“Well, _someone_ was a little more interested in his wife’s bare skin than sweet rolls,” I remind him in turn with mock-indignation. “I barely got the cold stuff put away before I was being enticed off to the bedroom by neck-kisses and roving fingers.”

“You taste better than food,” he says, so honestly that it takes my breath away. “But unfortunately, you don’t fill my belly quite so long.”

I gaze down at the place where we’re knitted together, still so snugly, then back a little further, toward his right leg. “Can you don the prosthesis around me?” I ask, because he’ll need that if adjourning to the kitchen is in our plans.

He grimaces doubtfully. “I’d do it in a heartbeat,” he assures me, “but unfortunately, I don’t think I can align the damn pin with you in-between.”

“Not to mention, you’re headed back to bed anyway,” I add in disappointed realization. “It would be pointless to make you put the stupid thing back on just to run out to the kitchen, grab some food, and come back to bed.”

“Not pointless at all, if it keeps us together the way you want,” he insists.

“But we’d have to move apart for a few minutes regardless to get your leg on,” I remind him. “And it’s not like I can just put you back in.”

He grins slowly. “You underestimate how sexy you are, _mamma mia,_ ” he says. “Watching you move around naked, all swaying breasts and glistening nethers, is enough to get me up to half-mast at the very least.”

“Oh shut up,” I grumble, blushing hotly. “It makes much more sense if I just go get some food while you stay in here –”

“Thinking about you?” he wonders dreamily. “That’s nearly as effective as watching you bustle around naked. Heck, by the time you get back in here you can probably climb straight back on.”

“This sudden virility is going to your head, old man,” I retort, amused and mortified all at once. “We’ll see if you reheat as quickly as your soup in the microwave.”

I scoot back toward his thighs and let his penis slip out of me, small and soft and slick with semen, and we utter simultaneous, near-identical sounds of discomfort. The absence of him tucked inside me aches like an old wound, and it’s going to take all the strength I have to make myself climb off him.

“This is not my favorite part,” I confess shakily.

“But it's in the running, surely?” he says, hopefully and impishly at once, and I banish his grin with a sharp nip at the tip of his nose.

“You have many appendages, Peeta Mellark,” I inform him coldly, “which are _far_ more handsome and dexterous – and _useful_ – than this sad floppy thing.” I cup his limp, maligned penis in one hand and grin grandly down at him. “By and large, I’m sure we can come up with _some_ practical application for it, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

And with that, I hop off him, snatch up his discarded undershirt from the dresser-top and pull it down over my head. It covers me better than the average sundress, and I untuck my hair from the collar with a superior smirk.

Unfortunately, my husband is smirking right back at me, and triumphantly at that. “While I strongly suspect you were trying to shield the view,” he remarks, “that threadbare t-shirt is in fact _highlighting_ the very best bits.”

I glance down at myself and then glare at him, scowling at my oversight, and he holds up his hands in a gesture of innocence, even as his chest shakes with laughter. “It’s not my fault!” he protests. “You have brown nipples, sweetie – dark and _gorgeous_ , like espresso under the crema,” he embellishes, because he’s so in love with that particular feature of mine that it’s downright ridiculous. “And that delicious thatch between your legs is jet-black, for heaven’s sake, so if you were trying to hide it –”

I glower at him as I fish his undershorts out of the heap of his jeans and stubbornly pull them up over my hips.

“You have _no_ idea how sexy you are,” he groans, and his penis twitches faintly in accord.

I love him so much that it hurts.

“And I love you too,” I tell him smartly and bend to kiss the top of his curly head. “I’ll be back in a few.”

I pad out to the kitchen and pull the makings of a meal from the fridge: eggnog, five-year Gouda, butter for the sweet rolls, and a nice chunk of cold venison, rich and winey, left over from Wednesday night’s Crock-Pot roast. The soup he brought home – still tepid in its cardboard quart on the counter – is baked potato, the way only Mellarks can make it, with zingy gobs of sour cream whisked in, copious crumbles of bacon, and thick threads of cheese rising with every spoonful. I pour it into one enormous bowl and toss it in the microwave, and I’m starting to slice the Gouda when I hear a suspicious soft _thwump!_ from the direction of the bedroom.

“Peeta,” I warn in my best mom-voice, stilling my knife for a half-second. “Don’t you dare come hopping in here.”

“Never even crossed my mind,” is the faint, muffled reply, and I smile to myself. Like as not he’s putting his leg back on and sneaking in to surprise me – or _try,_ with that wonderful heavy tread of his.

I stir the soup at the beep and pop it in for another thirty seconds, then reach down a mug for the eggnog. There’s a strange, hushed swishing noise from the hallway, but I put it down to Peeta dragging the blanket he’s doubtless covered with and planning to envelop me in.

I’ve just begun to fill the tray when the floor asks in my husband’s voice: “Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”

I turn around with a startled yelp and promptly dissolve into hysterical, belly-shaking laughter at the sight that awaits me. “ _I-Inny Inchworm?!_ ” I gasp.

Peeta is lying on the floor, rolled up like a burrito in the quilt from our bed – the quilt on which, I strongly suspect, our twins were conceived – and grinning from ear-to-ear beneath his new stocking cap, tag and all. “Rather than wait for the food to come to bed, I brought the bed to the food!” he says proudly, if ever so slightly out-of-breath from his inchworm crawl. “I even squeezed a pillow in here!”

“I shudder to think where you’re hiding that,” I wheeze in a feeble attempt to be dry, but I’m laughing too hard to be convincing in any measure.

“I’d be more concerned with where my phone is,” he says wickedly. “I muted the notifications, mind you; it’s purely for Pandora purposes.”

“Did you reply to Ashpet first?” I ask, wiping my eyes. “Because as much as I’m looking forward to telling her about this, I suspect a call from her would be highly inopportune just now.”

“All quiet on the Peep front,” he assures me and wriggles up onto his side. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

“Is there even room for two in that roly-poly pudding?” I wonder dubiously.

“ _Roly-poly, roly; roly, poly, roly,_ ” he quotes with a giggle, turning onto his back and rolling from side to side, every bit Samuel Whiskers’ rolling pin. “Believe it or not, capacity is four,” he says happily. “But you might have to strip naked and cuddle up to me; it's a pretty snug fit.”

I grin. “Are we cuddling or eating first?”

“Yes,” he replies. “You may not have noticed, but this is in fact a multi-purpose duvet cocoon that doubles as a blanket for naked picnics.”

 “Naked picnics are where the twins came from,” I remind him sternly. “And Janni too, as I recall.”

We were spending the weekend at the Mellarks’ lake cabin, just the three of us, shortly after my nineteenth birthday. I was nursing Ashpet under the weeping willow on this very same quilt, both of us drowsy and naked from our swim and drinking in the dappled summer sun on our dusky skins, when Peeta came out with our picnic lunch and positively swooned with longing, like a yellow-haired missionary stumbling upon a nubile native girl suckling her babe. I was rarely so unabashedly naked then, let alone outside, even when there was no one to see, and after the inevitable lovemaking Peeta locked my clothes in the cabin, so I would have to spend the rest of the afternoon naked in the backyard. Which proved unexpectedly delightful for both of us, to say nothing of Ashpet, with my bare breasts in constant, easy reach, and the smell of Peeta’s sunscreen coils my belly with arousal to this day.

Peeta’s mouth curves in a slow, sensuous smile at the memory. “That was an _amazing_ summer,” he murmurs. “It’s a little cold just now for naked antics in the backyard, but we could relive most of the rest if you bring our lunch down here.”

I quickly fit the rest of our meal onto the tray and crouch to set it on the floor beside him, then eye the edge of the quilt in which he’s still securely rolled. “You have to unroll me, like Fruit by the Foot,” he instructs, wiggling eagerly in his cocoon.

“If I do,” I warn, “and there’s a ‘special surprise’ in the middle, waiting to spring out at me like Snakes in a Can, I’m taking the quilt _and_ the lunch and leaving you in here: naked, cold, and unfulfilled.”

“It’ll be reasonably pleased to see you, I think,” he replies with mock-affront, “but I just crawled out here on my belly, for pity’s sake. My dangly bits are still trying to get un-smooshed.”

“Fair enough,” I concede with a grin, then take hold of his shoulder and hip and roll him over, not quite two full rotations, till there’s a picnicking quilt spread across my kitchen floor with a naked man lying at one corner, with a pillow beneath the stump of his right leg and a cell phone falling out of his armpit. His penis is very slightly erect – nowhere near the caliber of bawdy surprise I was afraid of, which has never been Peeta’s style anyway – and I crawl over to him on hands and knees. “I didn’t know duvet cocoons came with handsome boys inside,” I remark, trailing a finger down his breastbone.

“I was quite ordinary when I got in,” he explains. “It’s the magic of metamorphosis. If you roll me back up I’ll be gorgeous by Christmas." 

“Impossible,” I tell him lightly. “You’re gorgeous just as you are.”

I tuck the pillow beneath his stocking-capped head and retrieve his phone, where Nat King Cole Radio is paused and waiting. “ _Oh,_ good choice,” I sigh, and press play on “Around the World.”

The waltzlike introduction begins and I lie down beside my husband, nestling against his side and threading my fingers through his.

 _Around the world, I've searched for you_  
_I traveled on when hope was gone_  
_To keep a rendezvous_  
_I knew somewhere, sometime, somehow_  
_You'd look at me_  
_And I would see  
_ _The smile you're smiling now_

 _It might have been in Country Down_  
_Or in New York_  
_In Gay Paree_  
_Or even London Town_  
_No more will I go all around the world  
_ _For I have found my world in you_

“After that vow renewal,” he murmurs, leaning to kiss my forehead, “I think we need a babymoon.”

“You realize,” I murmur back, but merrily, because I know exactly where this is going. “That’s typically the last hurrah _before_ the baby comes: a lavish trip just for the couple.”

“But the babies are there anyway,” he points out. “Why not wait till they’re outside of Mom, so she’s not plagued with back pain and a compressed bladder, let alone worrying about unexpected complications, and then the peeps can paddle in the ocean and smell the _pâtisseries_ and actually see the castles for themselves?”

“You have a very peculiar view of romance, Mr. Mellark,” I tease. “Newborns on a honeymoon?”

“It’ll be like the weekend at the lake with Little Peep, only _much_ longer,” he sighs dreamily. “ _Weeks_ of naked breastfeeding! In fact,” he urges, turning to wrap me in his arms and pull me even closer, “let’s take your entire maternity leave to babymoon abroad.”

“For one, we’re not supposed to have sex _quite_ that soon,” I remind him with an apologetic smile. “And for two, we’ve already booked your mother for post-partum care, so we’d have to bring her along.”

“Well, she likes Ireland,” he reminds me with another kiss, playful this time and square on the mouth. “And it would be nice to have someone to send on nappy runs. What if we went over early and accidentally-on-purpose had the babies there?”

“You’re bound and determined to infuriate Ashpet, aren’t you?” I scold with mock-horror. “I don’t think it’s that easy to get dual citizenship, especially since we’re both U.S. citizens.”

“No, I’ve got it all worked out,” he says eagerly. “Peep’s going to get accepted to that study-abroad program; I’m sure of it, so she can just pop over from London and see her new little siblings.”

“And where’s Janni in this grand scheme of yours?” I wonder pointedly. “If the babies keep to their timetable, they’ll arrive shortly before graduation.”

He has the good sense to wince at this piece of news. “Living with Luka and Jo and trying to pass as Elske’s long-lost twin brother, probably,” he says. “All things considered, we’re seriously hijacking his senior year. What do you think we’ll have to do to make this up to him?”

“Summer in Paris,” I guess wryly. “But let’s be real: we can’t afford to send all four of our kids on simultaneous adventures abroad, especially if you never plan to work again after the twins are born.”

“Say that again,” he murmurs, and I eye him curiously till I realize which part he meant.

“ _All four of our kids_?” I wonder, amused, and he grins so hard he squints.

“We’ve been a two-kid household for so long,” he sighs. “You have no idea how excited I am for this.”

“I have a small inkling,” I tell him, and roll him to his back in a languid kiss. 

“That’s neither small nor an inkling,” he replies mirthfully, nuzzling his penis, now firmly aloft, against my clothed groin. “And there’s absolutely _no_ correlation between my current state of arousal and the fact that you’re pregnant with my twins.”

“None whatsoever,” I agree, petting his capped head like a puppy’s. “And in any case, you wanted lunch first, and probably a nap to boot –”

I scoot back in a pretense of climbing off him, but he catches my buttocks and tucks me snugly back over his erection. “I’ve got reserves aplenty for one more go,” he insists, thrusting gently against my cleft. “And since you obligingly brought the food down here, I can even stay inside you while we eat, if you want.”

“That sounds heavenly,” I moan, rubbing against him with a shiver. “But I think I’m a little overdressed for this party.”

“I might have an idea or two to rectify that,” he murmurs, his fingers creeping beneath the waistband of the undershorts, and I climb off him with a desperate little whimper to free one leg and let the shorts slide down the other, leaving me in the makeshift dress that is his undershirt.

“Good enough?” I pant, descending on splayed knees and enveloping his penis in one swift motion that makes us both gasp.

“Not today,” he groans, dragging the shirt up over my head even as his hips buck instinctively beneath me, establishing a deep, steady rhythm. “Not by half.”

The collar has barely cleared my head when his big hands are at my back, guiding my breast into his waiting mouth, and he grunts gratefully as he sucks, the tag on his stocking cap dancing with his movements.

Love is like this too: incredibly sexy and silly all at once.

I curl my arms around his neck and rock my hips to meet his accelerating thrusts. There’s little separation in this position but we’ve never been especially interested in that, and as his pelvis bucks more and more frantically we abandon any pretense of movement and simply grind into each other, panting and pulsing and sinking as deep as we can in a futile but euphoric attempt to finally crumble the feeble barriers that define our separate bodies and literally become one flesh, knit together in this place of perfectly engineered union.

“You complete me,” I whimper, hugging his head to my breasts and trembling around his penis, even as he gives one final deep push and spills inside me with a moan. With the relaxation of my climax my thighs loll somehow wider still, sinking him even deeper in some profound manner, even though he’s soft and shrunken within me. 

Somewhere in the near distance Frank Sinatra is crooning:

 _Up among the stars we'll find_  
_A harmony of life to a lovely tune  
_ _East of the sun and west of the moon_

I laugh shakily and Peeta releases my breast in a wet gasp to ask, “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Thinking about fairy tales,” I pant. “About happily ever after.”

“Twenty years and counting,” he murmurs, and I smile, because even in the dazzled drowsiness of orgasm he understands exactly what I mean.

Peeta and I were both good students who chose marriage instead of college – a fate worse than death to many of our classmates – and started our family straightaway, but for us, that _was_ happily ever after.

We went through many of the same challenges as those college-grad classmates – long working hours, both early and late; a tiny apartment and an even tinier budget, unexpected expenses that you were sure would bankrupt you for life – not to mention mountains of diapers to manage, 2 a.m. feedings, and seemingly endless episodes of colic, teething, diarrhea, stomach flu, and the rest. But we had each other to help weather the worst times and savor the best, and the spaces in-between had a unique domestic magic about them.

There’s something oddly romantic about dozing in the bathtub with your daughter latched to your breast – no longer hungry, just fussy and soothed by the contact – while your husband hoses her diaper contents down the toilet. About waking up thirty seconds after you finally fell asleep to change a diaper that you only just changed five minutes earlier and poke a breast back into a yowling mouth, and not realizing that you conked out till you wake up in the recliner a blissful two hours later, cocooned with baby in a quilt, when your husband brings you buttered toast and hot chocolate as a sustaining one-handed snack. About watching that same husband carve the most delightful jack-o-lanterns for your front step and then turn their scooped-out contents into golden pumpkin puree, purportedly for baby food, which mysteriously becomes decadent pumpkin soup instead and yet is still accordingly spooned into your daughter’s waiting baby-bird mouth.

I smile at the memories, then giggle at the realization that we get to do all of that all over again.

“What are you thinking about?” my husband asks, tipping me back against his bent left knee and curling his hands around mine.

“The return of Little Peep’s Pumpkin Soup,” I chuckle. “Either you turn that into an award-winning line of baby food or a Caldecott-worthy children’s book.”

“Both!” he declares, swinging our joined hands from side-to-side. Somehow, it’s even more adorable in light of the fact that he’s still buried inside me.

“We’re going to have two more kids, after all,” he reminds me, his sweet face utterly aglow. “We have to pay for their college somehow.”

“We could finally try and find a publisher for your illustrated Jack Everdeen tales,” I remind him. “I know all I did was recount the stories and make a few suggestions for the pictures, but if we got them in print, I could still feel like I’d done _something_ substantial for our kids.”

“Are you kidding?” he exclaims, genuinely aghast. “I mean yes, _of course_ we can do that, but you’re overlooking the obvious, sweetheart. In an era of switching on the TV – or anymore, a tablet – to entertain the kids, you take them off to the woods like a beautiful black-haired witch and feed them bark and roots while teaching them how to forage and climb and pick pinecones and telling them the most marvelous love stories about the sun and moon, or the sun and an ordinary little blackbird, which should be mutually exclusive and yet never seem to confuse anyone. You teach them that magic is alive and well in this harsh electronic world of ours,” he says ardently, and adds with a grin, “Not to mention, you _do_ bring home a tidy little paycheck every two weeks or so, which helps a bit.”

I smile and bend down to peck his mouth with a kiss. “Always the romantic,” I tease, but gently, and lean back against his leg with a sigh, only to catch my breath at the _truly_ magical sight outside our window.

“Peeta,” I whisper. “It’s _snowing._ ”  

He sits up eagerly, folding himself around me in the process, and his eyes crinkle at the fat, soft fairy-flakes falling steadily past the glass, as though he wants to laugh and cry all at once. “It’s snowing,” he breathes, letting his head fall against mine as we both gaze out, entranced by the sight.

Neither of us expresses – or feels – the slightest concern about Ashpet making it home, even if this escalates into the predicted early blizzard. She has an easy jaunt, good roads, and a solid little car, and if all else fails, she’s my father’s granddaughter. There’s a snowsuit, shovel, and honest-to-God snowshoes in her hatchback, and absolutely nothing will keep her from the first Papa and Peep’s Pizza Party in two months – to say nothing of the launch of Mama Peep’s Pasta Bar.

“A new season,” I murmur, kissing Peeta’s cheek, and we both know I mean more than early eggnog and an October snowstorm.

“An old season,” he corrects gently, wrapping his arms around me. “But a beloved one.” 

He meets my smile with a lingering kiss that whispers of 2 a.m. feedings and Irish babymoons and simmering gallons of Little Peep’s Pumpkin Soup, and we roll into our duvet cocoon, still meshed and tangled below the waist, to feast on eggnog and laughter and love.

**Author's Note:**

> Ashpet and Janni are my headcanon toastbaby names, for reasons that will probably be clear if you’ve read some of my other fics. “Janni” (think “Johnny” with more of a “zh” sound on the J) is, of course, short for “Janek,” the inevitable choice for the first Mellark grandson, but my headcanon (of my headcanon) is that Peeta and Katniss would simply address their son as “Janni” to avoid confusion, since Janek the First is still alive and active in their lives. Depending on the universe, I may give the children different names to fit the context and they may either be quite close in age or the longed-for twins. (If you’re keeping track, Toastbaby Girl was “Wren” in Mockingjay-Maid and “Violet” in Breadcrumbs and would have been called “Pippin” in The Threshing Floor universe if I’d ever got ‘round to writing that epilogue.)
> 
> The Mr. Napkin Head line is a reference to Jude Law’s character in _The Holiday_ , a widowed and unexpectedly domestic father of two little girls, and while I’m not sure if this is where the expression originated, the duvet cocoon reference comes from _Miranda_ , a hysterically funny Britcom and one of my all-time favorite shows, select episodes of which I expect will have appeared on the viewing lineup at one or more of Papa and Peep’s Pizza Parties. You can still find CBeebies Bedtime Stories on YouTube, though the best ones require some digging, and _006 and a Bit_ is performed by the entirely dishy Rupert Penry-Jones. 
> 
> Inny Inchworm comes from Zoo-phonics®, which I am too old to have grown up with (alas) but suspect the Mellark children would have gone crazy for. The roly-poly pudding lines, of course, relate to “The Tale of Samuel Whiskers, or The Roly-Poly Pudding,” which was and still remains my all-time favorite Beatrix Potter story, and which I suspect would have reduced both Ashpet and her father to endless giggles on a regular basis. (Seriously, look it up. Nothing is funnier than Tom Kitten in a tube of dough with his head and tail sticking out either end.) _Little Peep_ , another beloved childhood read of mine, was written by Jack Kent in 1981. It is no longer in print but remains inexpensively accessible as a used book and well worth the purchase.
> 
> “Around the World,” covered here by Nat King Cole, was written by Harold Adamson and Victor Young, and “East of the Sun (and West of the Moon),” covered here by Frank Sinatra, was written by Brooks Bowman. The latter has precious little to do with the fairy tale of the same name, but this fic provided the perfect opportunity to nod to it. 
> 
> The C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the story comes from _A Grief Observed_. Ordinarily I would have cited it as such in the context in which the quote appears, but doing so at the opening of the story created a misplaced sense of foreboding, so I kept it for the notes instead. And the beautiful line that Peeta quotes to Katniss is from "The Story of Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Paribanou," included in Andrew Lang's _Blue Fairy Book._ If you grew up as a voracious reader of fairy tales, this was a deliciously long one and therefore destined to be a favorite.
> 
> Finally, Katniss's line "Two little sacs and two little heartbeats" is gently quoted from LollyFii's comment on the What to Expect forum thread, "How soon are twins detected?" I honestly could not have phrased it any better way. Said user was also the inspiration for Katniss's early, intense morning sickness, courtesy of the amplifying effects of multiples.
> 
> And lest anyone fear, our expectant lovebirds are drinking pasteurized commercial eggnog. :)


End file.
